


FREAK

by parke



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Nen, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BDSM, Blood Kink, CP mention, Child Sexual Abuse, Cutting, Drinking, Drugs, Eating Disorder, F/F, Facials, Fingering, Fisting, Fluff, Gang activity, Gutting, Heavy Angst, Heavy gore, Hisoka dyes his hair a lot, Hisoka gets a lot of boners, Hisoka is tattooed from the neck down, Hisokas covered in freckles and his hair is curly and frizzy, Hurt/Comfort, Illumi gets bangs, Illumi has clavicle piercings, M/M, Making Hisoka extra tall in this fic, Maybe I’m projecting a lot but I guess we’ll never know, Oral Sex, Self Harm, Sex Trafficking, Sex Work, Sexual Assault, Smoking, Smut, Suicide mention, Unsafe Sex, Voyeurism, Yeah he’s 6’4, dead dove, humping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:34:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 64,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26050456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parke/pseuds/parke
Summary: Illumi is a model disappearing with each passing day. Hisoka is partial to Seattle’s gang scene.Both men are driven by ambition. And both men are digging their own graves.
Relationships: Feitan/Shalnark, Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck, Hisoka/Illumi Zoldyck, Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer/Illumi Zoldyck, Machi/Pakunoda
Comments: 95
Kudos: 271





	1. THE MAVERICK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: This story will include graphic depictions of eating disorders, rape, violence, and substance abuse. All of these are tagged above, but I feel the need to reiterate that this story is very, very dark.
> 
> Also, please note that even though this story takes place in Seattle, all of the landmarks and street names are made up.
> 
> This story is dedicated to anyone who’s suffered from or is currently suffering from an eating disorder. You’re strong, and you can overcome this.

**PART ONE: THE RECKONING**

_Deception may give us what we want for the present, but it will always take it away in the end._

_-Rachel Hawthorne_

* * *

Illumi settles back in the salon chair, allowing Morow to run the faucet and begin shampooing his hair. Such an ordeal typically took at least twenty minutes. Not only that, but because his hair fell right below his ass, Morow had to use about a third of a shampoo bottle every time he did Illumi’s hair. 

He didn’t mind the process though. Not when Morow did it. He always massaged product into Illumi’s scalp gently. He then combed through his hair with yet more grace, long, stilettoed nails detangling the few knots inside. To pretend as if this wasn’t enjoyable would have been foolish. 

However, that didn’t mean Illumi wasn’t careful to keep this concealed. 

Praised for his aloof, nonchalant demeanor, Illumi was dubbed by colleagues and managers alike as the Winter Fox. Many were quick to point out how he never smiled, never laughed, or even revealed a hint of emotion in his voice. He was the definition of stoic——and because of this, his persona was coveted by many modeling agencies. 

Naturally, his stoicism extended beyond the runway. Oftentimes, he was reminded by family and coworkers that he needn’t be so serious all the time. The sheer amount of times he’d been asked to smile or even show an ounce of amiability proved astronomical. 

And instead of following their irritating (although well-meaning) advice, he simply refrained from responding. And it’s not that he didn’t want to——because he wouldn’t have held back if he’d been able to come up with a snarky retort. No; Illumi’s issue was that he never knew _how_ to respond. 

What _did_ one do in that case? How was he supposed to loosen up when his character was one of the primary things he’d get praised for? It’s not likely he’d be admired as much if he just shrugged out of that straightjacket. Likewise, by dressing how he truly wanted and not obsessing over his figure, people would have begun claiming he wasn’t taking care of himself, that he wasn’t as handsome as he used to be——but never, in either of these scenarios, would Illumi’s happiness be prioritized or accounted for. 

Morow begins running his hands through the model’s now soaked hair, humming as he does so. Illumi fights the urge to close his eyes and relax his shoulders. Instead, he keeps his gaze rapt on the ceiling lights above, thinking about how he’ll navigate his way through this afternoon’s shoot.

Ever since Illumi’s signed off with Firestarter, he’s been busier than ever. Barely getting time to himself left him prone to a myriad of habits he thought he’d kicked. Habits that had inevitably left him fucked up beyond repair. 

Alas.

Today they were providing all kinds of refreshments and snacks at this afternoon’s shoot. Assortments of cheeses and pastries would be widely available. Firestarter may have been a new company, though that didn’t mean they wouldn’t settle for any less than the best in every regard. Beyond their arsenal of promising models, CEO Bisky Krueger made sure that all dealings and affairs were taken care of, every assignment scheduled down to the last second. Indeed, she knew of the vulnerable position Firestarter was in——and she made everyone aware of lengths she’d go to ensure the agency’s success.

Illumi knew he’d have to navigate the coming situation with tact, being that most of his team would also be present at the shoot. Much like Krueger, Illumi was willing to give up everything to secure his rise to the top. He knew there lay no room for error. 

The cigarettes in Illumi’s back pocket call his name louder than ever. The desire to self-soothe utilizing external, destructive methods always tempted him, and the appeal seldom faded, no matter what lay at stake. 

Morow turns the faucet off and guides Illumi over to his salon station. He grabs a comb off the messy counter top and begins raking through his client’s hair.

“I don’t know why I bother with combing your hair. There aren’t any knots. Ever.”

“Then don’t comb it.”

Morow grins. “Don’t be ridiculous”

Illumi shifts his gaze to his lap. Then he holds back a sigh. 

The monotony of this process always left the model on the verge of sleep. And with Morow’s swift, graceful treatment of his hair, Illumi couldn’t help but relax a bit when he had those hands running through it. 

Despite this, communicating with Morow typically left Illumi on edge. The man stirred up reactions in him he thought he had under control; indeed, Illumi always caught himself being too open. Whenever he noticed this, he’d always find his shoulders slouched and eyes half-lidded. He liked to think he had carefully regulated his emotions, that he’d finally gotten the hang of preventing Morow from getting to him. After all, he’d constantly reminded himself to remain closed, so it was safe to assume he stayed this way. 

Wasn’t it?

It’s needless to say his attitude towards a stylist’s actions were beyond inappropriate. Morow just had a job to do, and a simple one at that. The fact he proved apt at it meant nothing; Illumi only needed him to do his hair. That’s it. He had no mental energy to expend on the matter of staying curt and cagey. Not with someone as lowly as him. Morow may’ve been entertaining, charming even, but Illumi was better than him. Really, he didn’t need to show much respect. 

So to stress over being aloof enough proved ridiculous. It made no sense. Illumi would be fine. 

“You know, I used to have my hair long too.”

“Okay.”

“It got to be too much to maintain. So I went short.” Morow runs one hand through his hair.

“That’s an ironic thing to say, coming from a hair stylist.”

Morow chuckled. “Change is never a bad thing.”

“But that’s not why you cut it.”

“No, it’s not. I just got lazy.”

Illumi fought back a smile. Again, had no reason to react in such a manner. The man didn’t care to talk to him——-he just wanted to pass the time as he styled Illumi’s hair. 

And Illumi was not a distraction, nor would he put up with being treated as such. 

“You shouldn’t be telling me about your lackluster work ethic, given the nature of your job.”

“I wouldn’t mind working harder to do your hair. It’s so lovely.”

He nearly sighs this last sentence. Never has Illumi wanted to snap someone’s neck so bad. 

“You’re being an ass kisser.”

“Someone can’t take a compliment, huh?”

Illumi flushes red.

“I only know when people are being saccharine.”

“Saccharine. Nice word usage.”

“What are you, an English teacher?”

Morow lets out a laugh. It sounds pleasant and comforting. It reminds Illumi of afternoons when he’d been left to care for Killua, helping him with homework and making him little snacks. Those later hours when their parents hadn’t arrived to separate the two for the sake of strengthening their “emotional independence” may as well have been sacred. Illumi feels his shoulders slouch once more. He doesn’t understand how a sound can encompass so many layers of comfort. Not like that. 

“You’re something else. You really are.”

Illumi resists the urge to defend himself. The more he engaged in conversation with Morow, the more he’d have to work to keep up his act. He didn’t want or need to waste time doing so——and this he had already decided on. Of course, he ought to have mulled his decisions over, choosing his battles wisely and refraining from engaging in fruitless talk. 

Illumi hesitates before responding. It’s like there’s something lodged in his throat. 

“Personally, I’d never be an English teacher.”

Morow appears confused at first. Illumi had a bad habit of replying to things too late, leaving conversations like so hanging for a bit too long. Still, Morow eventually understands the context behind his sentence. 

“So, if you weren’t a model, what would you have done?”

He makes eye contact in the mirror as he asks this. For a moment, Illumi finds it hard to look away. 

The light in his eyes resembled that of a pupil. In it there was nothing but curiosity, nothing but a genuine desire for knowledge. No one has ever shown him that much interest——at least not when the topic at hand didn’t concern his appearance. 

So Illumi doesn’t hold back. 

“Music.”

He answers this with a terse tone, one which indicated that he wished for the matter to be closed. Inside, however, he wanted this to stretch out the way languid summer days lasted forever. A part of him wanted to appreciate the little intricacies of their exchange; Morow’s questions were inviting as a warmly-lit house in the midst of a winter night; and, in turn, Illumi’s replies were like that of a gaping ravine, an area that reckless wanders undoubtedly fell through. 

For once, Illumi saw impromptu opportunities. And when Morow presses on, he is anything but annoyed. He is only grateful.

“What kind of music do you play?”

“Metal.”

Again, Morow's facial expression changes. He bites his lower lip for a moment——then he grins, lips spreading over his narrow, chiseled face. 

“I could see that. Long hair and solemn dark eyes. Slender, sinewy build. Yeah. You’d look the part.”

“So we’re making this about looks, then?”

“Well that’s an ironic statement coming from you, model boy.”

“My music and job should not intertwine with one another.”

He pauses.

“And don’t call me model boy.”

Morow doesn’t bother stifling his grin. 

Now Illumi’s asking himself why he’s allowed this discussion to go on for so long, letting it grow into something neither of them were likely to forget soon. Illumi had never engaged in a full fledged conversation with Morow. He had always shut down things prematurely——and for good measure. Because now Illumi can sense what Morow’s getting ready to say, what idea he’s preparing to propose. And Illumi doesn’t know if he’ll be able to decline. 

There are remenants of a frown on Morow’s face. His eyebrows are knitted, and if Illumi didn’t believe he was some kind of dim witted idiot, he would’ve guessed the man was in deep thought. His expression echoes that of a lawyer grasping at straws to make a far-fetched appeal. Some time passes before he speaks. 

“You need a guitar player?”

Illumi grunts. “No.”

The reality of Illumi’s situation was that he could barely play himself. His strengths lay in the composition of melodies and pensive lyrics. He found infinitely more pleasure in manipulating his voice to suit the songs he created. Stripping the skin on his fingers just to sound out a tune never intrigued him. He saw those parts of the recording process as a necessary (though irritating) tax. 

“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out then. Hope you put some music out soon.”

A long silence settles over both men. Neither of them say anything for the next few minutes. But instead of this absence of words being a comfort or luxury, it only makes Illumi anxious. This sort of quietude wasn’t the kind which naturally set in after a lively conversation. Instead, this was highlighted by restraint and by suppression, because Illumi sensed Morow was taking longer and longer to reply to his words.

Illumi meets his face in the mirror. And then his eyes flit to the clock sitting on his hairdresser’s counter. 

He’s thankful his lunch break is in twenty minutes.

***

Illumi sits on the roof, already his second cig. His food is beside him, untouched. Everyday he packed the same exact thing: ten almonds, three stalks of celery, two rice cakes, and a single boiled egg. None of this food is to his liking, but food isn’t meant to be enjoyed.

He’d considered shirking the idea of packing it altogether because of the afternoon shoot. But before then he still had a handful of things to do, and he didn’t want to be running on fumes alone.

Last time he tried that he’d passed out. 

Thankfully, the first time this happened, he’d been able to reassure his team with some half-assed excuse. Of course, while they were concerned for Illumi’s wellbeing, it took a surprisingly small amount of words to reassure them. He reckoned they should’ve been more suspicious, being that one of their top model’s health could’ve been on the line. Anyway, he knew now that they’d barely bat an eye if he passed out——because these days he almost appeared healthy. 

After a couple long drags, Illumi puts out the fag. Then he sets the Tupperware container on his lap. Inside, it is divided into four sections. Illumi always started with the rice cakes and finished with the celery stalks.

He checks his watch. Twenty minutes. 

That was more than enough time. 

Before he opens the container, he takes a long swig of water. 

He’d given up on the idea of quitting this long ago. Sometimes he’d go months without engaging in these episodes. He’d even entertain the idea that he was recovered, questioning why he had ever engaged in this behavior to begin with. Doing this wasn’t like smoking cigs or downing one’s issues with alcohol.

Such behaviors brought him nothing but anxiety. They brought him nothing but a hazy mind and an absent presence. They brought him nothing but nasty breath and puffy cheeks and watery eyes and red knuckles. 

Illumi proceeds to pop open the sides of the Tupperware container, almost tossing the top aside. His hands are shaking.

He brings the first rice cake to his lips. It only takes him a few bites to work through. 

He takes a shaky breath. 

He’s supposed to finish it in fifteen bites, chewing 20 times with each bite, but the fact that he disregarded this only set things in stone. 

The next few minutes fly as Illumi then begins shoving food into his mouth, not even tasting the things he had so meticulously packed. Between every few bites he chugs water.

Right now, he’s riding the kind of high veteran addicts fantasize about. Nothing can stop him in this moment. Whatever ails him is trivial, a series of infinitesimal inconveniences. Here he is alone, unbothered, and in a state transcending absolute bliss. He didn’t want this to end. To finally allow himself to eat how much and how fast he wanted was beyond heavenly.

Maybe, just maybe once he finishes his lunch, he could go down and get more food from the vending machines. Nothing was stopping him. And he could eat however much he wanted because he knew how to avoid the consequences that came with gluttony. He knew how to adapt to any challenge thrown his way. He might as well have been a goddamned maverick. 

Illumi tries reaching for another celery stalk.

But there’s no more food in his container. 

And then, despite all the grandiose confirmations he’s forced through his head, his fall from euphoria is anything but cushioned. Upon realizing all his food is gone, Illumi wastes no time dwelling over his actions. 

Popping the cover on top of the Tupperware container and grabbing his water bottle, Illumi rushes down the side of the building, metal steps clanging beneath his weight. Once he finds a door to the ground floor, he reduces his pace to a quick walk.

As he enters the building, a woman catches his gaze. Illumi’s stomach twists. He can feel the heat in her glance, the silent, profound judgement. She must’ve thought he’s let himself go. That Firestarter’s top model was beginning to put on too much weight. And, as he reverts his eyes , he keeps them trained on the floor until he finds the bathrooms. 

The bitch probably thought he was some kind of freak. He must’ve been hard to look at.

Illumi knew his weight gain was becoming evident. His slender face was beginning to fill in, and his legs weren’t complete toothpicks anymore. Now, while sparse, some muscle definition became apparent. In the span of two months his frame had gone from skeletal to lithe, and though the comments about his weight gain were positive enough, he knew they’d become biting if he didn’t get a grip. 

Today he didn’t fuck up too bad. His lunch wouldn’t have satiated a child, so it made sense as to why he scarfed it all. 

But still. If he didn’t get rid of it that’d show he wasn’t in control. He would not take orders from food, nor would he let it ruin the physique he had worked so hard for. He needed his ribs to poke out again and his hip bones to jut through his skin. Having them covered by a layer of fat only proved he was a gluttonous piece of shit. 

By the time Illumi finds the bathrooms, he slams a stall door behind him, leans over the toilet, and stuffs his fingers down his throat.

It takes a couple moments for the food to come up. The celery stalks come out first, half eaten green globs plopping into the toilet. 

He would not let food fuck him up. He would not let food ruin the image he’d built for himself. Fuck the afternoon shoot and the social aspect of those affairs. Illumi would eat nothing. He’d show them all that he had control; indeed, he would be the skinniest model they’ve ever hired. 

He removes his fingers from his mouth, taking a breath. He feels a little lightheaded. A couple seconds pass before he leans over the toilet once more, ramming his fingers into the back of his throat. 

Spit runs down his chin. After, a stream of water shoots out of his mouth. 

Gradually, he can feel the pent-up coils of impurities departing from his body, leaving him empty. Leaving him clean. 

He only takes one more break before he forces everything else out. The rest of the food exits with ease, though an abrasive cough escapes as the last bit of rice cake falls into the toilet. 

His eyes widen for a second. Illumi had become a pro at purging his food in a matter of weeks, disposing of it swiftly and, for the most part, silently. The Winter Fox knew how to hide his worst vice——and, up until now, he’d believed he perfected this skill. 

Nevermind that now. Illumi had responsibilities to attend to. 

Straightening, he checks his watch. He’s got five minutes before he needs to start heading back. At the moment, all he could do was clean up and get ready to return to the set. Leaving the stall, he approaches a sink, and gives a long, hard look at his face. It’s round and pink. 

Just like a pig. 

Some things didn’t come out no matter how hard you tried hiding them. Illumi could’ve washed his face all he wanted and chewed gum till the scent of bile disappeared from his mouth, but that didn’t alter the upward trajectory of his weight. That didn’t alter the fact that he was throwing away his physique for momentary pleasure, for something which would put his career on the line. 

***

It’s late by the time he enters his house. The shoot had gone smoothly enough, and afterwards he had grabbed a couple things to eat. Purging them, as he’d come to suspect, proved difficult. 

He could pretend he had willpower and restraint all he wanted, except every time he found a moment to purge he became spineless. No; when opportunities like so presented themselves, Illumi simply couldn’t resist.

It didn’t matter how risky the situation was, as he found a way every time without fail. And he’d tell himself again and again that he wouldn't keep doing that sort of shit, that he’d find a better way to cope with his issues, that maybe he’d even get therapy for it——anything at all just to make it stop, to make this hellish cycle finally come to a halt——but deep down Illumi knew it meant nothing.

Beyond the difficulties his impulses imposed upon him, Morow had been on the set of the shoot. Along with the rest of Illumi’s team of stylists, he essentially coordinated how they did shit. Seeing him ordering people around with confidence and tenacity had made Illumi want to fold in on himself. 

He was in control. And he had his shit together. 

As much as it pained Illumi to see how much better Morow was faring, he had to remind himself that there was a lot on his plate. Unlike him, Morow wasn’t under the suffocating demands of pesky managers. He never got comments on how he could’ve been a little better at his job, a little more polished and refined. To Firestarter, Morow sufficed. 

He didn’t need to change. 

Illumi throws his bag near his door and plods to his room. Once inside, he strips to his underwear before grabbing his laptop off his nightstand. After he crawls into bed, he opens it up. 

When he clicks the browser on his desktop, he takes a deep breath. If Illumi didn’t shut out the voices in his head, he couldn’t get this done in peace. Never did he get a moment where his thoughts receded to the back of his head, dormant and unbothersome. Naturally, there always had to be something nagging at the back of his mind, a dull razor which slowly tore him to shreds. 

To be fair, it wasn’t as if Illumi enjoyed doing this. Rather, it had become a necessity the same way his purging sessions were. These times kept him going the same way gas powered a car——and, much like getting gas for one’s car, it proved an annoyance at best. 

But, in that same vein, he could also argue that he could put off doing these sorts of things. Many didn’t fill their gas tanks prematurely, and so if Illumi could delay doing what he dreaded, then he’d do so. 

So with that, Illumi makes his way over to the bathroom. He washes his face and brushes his teeth. In the midst of his routine, he hears a voice from beside him. 

“You alright?”

Illumi turns around, meeting Killua’s eyes. 

“I’m fine.”

“You got home late today.”

Why did he care? Illumi’s life would not be under his little brother’s scrutiny. If he wanted to keep things private, he would, no matter the degree of interrogation Killua subjected him to.

“I had a lot of work to do.”

“You always say that.” 

“Were you expecting an alternate response?”

Killua crosses his arms over his chest. “Not from you.”

Illumi raises a brow. 

“Are you ever gonna tell me what goes on at your work or am I just gonna have to watch you turn into a fucking zombie? Every time you come home you look like you’ve been put through a meat grinder.”

“I’m just busy.”

“You’re never gonna open up, huh. Should’ve known. I mean all you are is a fucking liar anyway.”

Illumi pushes past Killua and locks his bedroom door.

A moment passes. Illumi slides down the other side of the door, ass meeting the cold wood floors. He closes his eyes and clenches his jaw. 

“What haven’t you lied about at this point?”

His voice comes through muffled.

With all that Illumi already did for Killua, he shouldn’t have been treating him like this. Even if Illumi hadn’t come home till midnight, Killua should’ve understood the strain his job put him under. He was a smart boy. 

“Respect my privacy.”

He was doing his brother a favor. If he’d told him of all the shit that pounded through his head, he’d be distraught. Probably wouldn’t even trust Illumi to care for him anymore.

In fact, he probably wouldn’t trust him to look after _himself_. 

Had he been acquainted with the beliefs which drove Illumi to act the way he did, Killua wouldn’t have questioned his behavior——no. And it was one thing to know how he felt, to comprehend it on a basic level and apply a degree of sympathy.

Alas, it was an entirely different ordeal to realize how Illumi was eroding. How his habits were wringing him out, gutting him of his individuality, his character; certainly, it was one thing to observe what went on, and an entirely different one to experience the monster ravaging him, the thing which left a hollow husk in its wake, one with a body which barely functioned and a mind filled with deafening static. 

“You know what? I shouldn’t even be mad, honestly. Not like I need to hold you to an expectation or anything.”

Illumi levels out his voice. He can feel his entire form trembling. 

“What aren’t I doing for you?”

“Being my friend! My brother! I don’t care if you provide me with food and shelter if you’re just going to act the way you do!”

He pauses. His breathing has become labored. 

“I wish Mom and Dad were still around.”

“They cared more than you.”

Illumi clenches his jaw shut. He would not erupt at Kil. Not when he was like this. Here, he needed to respond with a level head, appeal to his brother’s veiled sense of reason. 

“If only you knew the lengths I went through for you.”

Oh——and he’d never know——because Kil didn’t have to worry about appearances or maintaining a facade or even speaking a certain way. He didn’t have a reputation to protect——and so he wouldn’t be able to wrap his head around the balancing act that came with sudden success.

He wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t.

“What lengths, Illu?! What fucking lengths?!”

Illumi’s chest becomes tight. 

“None you’d ever realize.”

He doesn’t hear a response. Tilting his head to the side, he listens for the slightest mumble. 

Illumi represses a laugh. The fuck did Kil know, throwing around those wishes? If he’d really wanted his parents around, he wouldn’t be acting like this. Neither of them would approve of his rash behavior, nor would they tolerate it. 

Back when Father had begun disciplining Illumi, he’d regularly berate him. And, during these times, Illumi wasn’t allowed to cry or retaliate or wear his heart on his sleeve. His father had taught him to not only shove his feelings down, but to kick them aside and respond to his insults.

_Do not just walk away._

_Look me in the eyes when you speak._

_Raise your voice and articulate your words._

Later on, long after these ordeals had died down, Father would explain his methods. As Illumi first learned, he’d been informed that one could sense hurt in two different ways——and it came in either strained screams or raspy whispers, in contorted faces or averted gazes. He was also informed that he couldn’t let other people know what made him tick, and so it became essential to shroud the tender flesh of his feelings. 

Kil was never subjected to any of that shit. He never had his nature beat out of him, was never flattened into a person devoid of genuine expression. 

Illumi waits a bit longer for a reply——but now only silence enveloped the apartment.

He rises from the floor and gets back into bed. His laptop is still open, although now the screen is dark. 

Sighing, he relaxes his shoulders and turns his body away from it. The urge to do what he’d planned had vanished with Killua’s words. 

He knew Kil only said those things to get on his nerves. To coax his struggles out and into the open. By calling him a liar because he withheld information was one thing——perhaps a bit of a stretch——yet it was entirely different for things to escalate into delusional idealization. Those kinds of statements only came with built-up resentment. 

Beyond this, Kil always liked getting the last word in. He never left things hanging, especially when an exchange begun tilting in the other’s favor. It wasn’t like him at all. 

He pulls up the covers before nestling beneath them.The sheets are smooth and cool against his skin.

There was the possibility that his words had gotten through to Killua. Maybe he was too ashamed to respond because he’d realized how much he’d fucked up. It surely explained the dead end of their argument. 

But Kil wouldn’t admit to a wrong. He wouldn’t slink away in shame——so what this probably meant was that he’d _thought_ he got in the last say, sealed their argument with a definitive stamp. And the only way he’d think that is if he hadn’t heard what Illumi said.

Therefore, he must’ve whispered his last words. That had to be it. 

And to think he was over that. To think he was over letting his emotions seep into his voice the way blood seeps through a tight bandage. To think he had kicked one of his many habits to the dust only for it to creep up on him again. 

Anything and everything that may have seemed conquerable always came to bite him in the ass. No matter how hard he tried to rewire the nature of his faulty mind, old habits never failed to crawl back in ways which fucked him over beyond belief.

There was no point in fighting, no point in resisting, and so Illumi knew he could only manage. Still——to think that he’d a handle on his stoicism hurt more than anything ever would. It didn’t matter if his emotions only came through here and there. Just because their appearances were spotted didn’t mean they were nonexistent. 

He was worthless. And he was a failure. And there was no point in resisting his vices. Not anymore.

That night, Illumi would fall asleep with the laptop open and a chest so hollow he could feel the gaping space all around his heart. 


	2. NOTES

Days off never sat well with Illumi.

Without the structure of work to guide his day, he was oftentimes left with large stretches of time to himself, ones where he wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to do. 

Typically, he’d end up spending them writing songs or practicing ones he’d already composed. However, he’d only do this if Killua wasn’t home; so, when his brother _did_ laze around the house, Illumi took to browsing the internet or cycling through the same three satire novels on his bookshelf. 

Killua had departed before Illumi had woken up. He’d left a note on the breakfast table detailing that he’d gone off to spend the day with Gon. Now, four coffees and two cigarettes later, that note lay shredded in the corner of Illumi’s bedroom. 

Sometimes he wondered just what Gon offered that he didn’t. The kid could, in no way, perform as many favors as he did. Of course, Kil wanted companionship, wanted amity, though Illumi reckoned he needed to get his priorities in order, realize that blood came before anything else. Having fun shouldn’t have been what his world revolved around. What would he do when the responsibilities which came with life inevitably descended upon him? Would he just run off and fuck around instead?

Illumi pinches the bridge of his nose. 

As he proceeds to sing the chorus of his song “Pulse”, he stops midway and groans. 

“Pulse” was meant to be sung in a deep, rich voice. Yet Illumi had a hard time holding many of the notes he’d written.He’s always had difficulty performing heavier sounding songs. Chrollo, his boyfriend, had gone as far as to mention he’d fucked up by writing that type of shit anyway.

Illumi takes another look at the lyrics. They made no sense. Not only that, but he couldn’t seem to hold the melody.

Maybe if he practiced his scales it’d be easier to nail the notes he’d written. But the thought of going through another scale made him cringe. It already hurt to sing for long stretches of time—-and especially so when the melodies he practiced didn’t fall into his vocal range. 

Regardless, he starts another voice exercise. His throat feels like it’s on fire. He’s not even able to finish it out before reaching for his water. 

He’s already gone through three bottles. 

After a few long sips, Illumi sits back in his chair. Outside, dark storm clouds gather in the sky. They remind him of how his mother always doted on his eyes, calling them dark gems, saying that if he inherited anything worthwhile from her, it was his stormy, cool gaze. To Kikyo, he only had his looks going for him, and most of his features weren’t striking anyway. He wasn’t special——not to her, not to his “friends”, not to his own brother. 

Illumi liked to think he was wrong, that he could show her his merit didn’t only lie in his appearance. He didn’t want to live a life where all his time was dedicated to whitening his teeth or doing face masks or working out for hours on end. He wanted more than that, and yet he’d decided to go into modeling despite this. 

He tucks his lyrics away into a drawer, removing the sheet music in return. His eyes then travel to the guitar strewn by his door. 

Practicing chords seemed realistic at the moment, being that he couldn’t sing for long without sending himself into excruciating pain. The mere thought of this made Illumi wince. But it was evident the alternative wasn’t feasible, so he works with what he can. Rising from his chair, Illumi goes to pick up his guitar. The weight of it reminds him of Morow. Their most recent exchange comes to mind. 

Something about the way his entire disposition had shifted in such a short period of time did not sit well with Illumi. It was almost as if an alter ego had emerged from beneath his skin, his forefront eroding the way a flower withers with age, his well-painted mask at last uncovering motives which flowed like the River Styx.

Illumi couldn’t pinpoint why his voice sounded venomous——he’d never heard Morow get like that. And he knew he shouldn’t have cared. This wouldn’t have changed their relationship (if a professional affiliation could be called that). 

Nevertheless, his tone played in his head like some sort of spiteful refrain, dark and snide and biting. To be frank, Illumi didn’t care much for how he made Morow feel——he just wanted his fucking hairdresser out of his head. He had no right to occupy this much space. 

At this point, he may as well have been a resident in Illumi’s mind. He’d be the kind of guest who left dirty dishes in the sink and didn’t bother to ask how his day went. Yes, he’d simply profit off the resources Illumi’s mind provided him with, leaving nuanced burdens in return. Morow would’ve been the textbook definition of a deadbeat, and Illumi refused to put up with it.

_Out you go, remember to pack your emotional baggage, don’t let the door hit you on the way out._

Illumi’s grip on the guitar’s neck becomes tight—-and when his phone buzzes, he nearly drops it. On his lock screen, a text from Chrollo appears. 

_My house tonight?_

He waits a beat prior to responding. He pushes any remnant of Morow to the back of his mind. In turn, he tries bringing Chrollo to the forefront of it, envisioning the poised way he presented himself.

A small smile comes to Illumi’s lips. He texts a reply.

_Sure._

Because he didn’t know when Killua would return, Illumi gets up and goes back into the kitchen. 

He opens the fridge and begins taking out bread, cheese, and butter. Along with it, he gets out a bag of smiley face French fries from the freezer. 

Once he’s heated up a skillet, he puts one slice of bread inside. Then, he gets a bag of shredded cheese and throws a few handfuls on top. Illumi cringes while doing this——he couldn’t imagine eating the greasy shit he was preparing. Not in a million years. 

But Kil liked what he liked.

As the cheese melts in the pan, Illumi begins preparing the French fries. Later, he still had to go to the gym, practice his song more, and then get ready to see Chrollo. If he didn’t make dinner for Kil in advance, he’d never get around to doing it. 

Again, there was the possibility that Kil wouldn’t even be back by tonight. He’s stayed at Gon’s for three days before. Cooking his dinner could’ve proved a waste of time——but Illumi didn’t want to risk Kil coming home and going to bed with an empty stomach. It never hurt to take extra precautions. 

By the time Ilumi finishes cooking, he cuts the grilled cheese diagonally and sets it in a Tupperware container. Then, he sets the smiley face French fries beside it, closes the box, and sticks it in the fridge. 

He proceeds to retrieve a notepad and pen. It’s the same one Kil used. Illumi writes the following:

_At Chrollo’s tonight. Dinner is in the fridge. Eat it or not, I don’t fucking care. Learn some respect while I’m away. When I return I will not put up with your bullshit._

Illumi slaps the sticky note onto the face of the fridge and walks out the kitchen. He had more pressing matters to worry about than his brother’s temperament. 

When he’s back in his bedroom, Illumi opens up the closet and fishes for a pair of shorts. The ones he slips into barely cover his ass. Also, the shirt he pulls on is tight around his chest. 

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck.”

He drops to his knees and lunges for the scale in the far corner. It’s covered with dirty, undone laundry. He does not hesitate before stepping on. It takes a few seconds to spit out a number, three ovals alternating in up and down motions, the coming number a snake soon to burrow it’s way right through Illumi’s sanity. 

140.1. With clothes on. 

Instinctively, Illumi gets out his phone. He enters his stats in a calculator.

It gives him a BMI of 18.5. 

There is no time to wait, to speculate how heavy he actually is. He needs to know his true weight now. His raw weight. The weight which he’d have to update his managers on, the one they’d examine with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. 

He steps off, strips down, steps on again. 

139.3. 

BMI 18.4. 

Illumi winces. He hasn’t eaten very much today, so it’s likely the number below him is quite accurate. 

To be frank, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Not at all. Really, what did he expect, bingeing and purging as often as he did? He damn well knew purging didn’t get rid of enough calories. It didn’t erase the damage he’d brought upon himself. 

Still naked, Illumi finds the bathroom and examines his reflection. His ribs barely show anymore. His abs also look bulkier, more prominent, a series of rounded rectangles taunting him, commanding him to observe how he’s let them grow plump, telling him they’ll turn to fat soon enough. 

Illumi’s stomach churns. 

He was seeing Chrollo tonight, no doubt about it. And he’d be the first to witness his weight gain up close. How would he look, descending upon him with all the extra fat hanging off him? He hasn’t seen him in two weeks, as they’d both been up to their necks in work. And Illumi was positive that he hadn’t been 139 two weeks ago. He would’ve known so. Indeed, these last few days he’d noticed the way his clothes fit tighter, the way they almost wrapped around his body. 

How, how would Chrollo be turned on if he saw him in this state? How could he expect good sex if he looked like a piece of lard? He was a whale, and he wouldn’t want to fuck a whale, no one would, and Illumi couldn’t blame him if he ended up cheating. 

He squeezes his eyes shut. 

Certainly, he had plenty to worry about. In addition to tonight’s upcoming date, he had a whole list of things he had to get done. All he ought to focus on now was getting his ass to the gym. Maybe he could work off some water weight, cut away at a bit of the fat all over his body, and then tone up the muscles getting buried beneath it. So long as he got enough caffeine in his system afterwards, fucking his boyfriend would be a breeze. 

***

When Chrollo opens the door, he takes in Illumi with a guarded light in his eyes. His lips quirk up at one corner.

“And you’re dressed up because?”

  
  
“I don’t wear casual clothes. Not outside my house, anyway.”

  
  
“Neither do I.”

  
  
Illumi takes a step towards him. In turn, Chrollo brings up a hand to his cheek.

“You look worn out.”

  
  
“When am I not?”

  
  
Chrollo raises his brows.“Modelling taking a toll?”

  
  
“I wouldn’t quit if it ruined me beyond repair.”

Such a notion had been the source of many arguments. The scenes varied from Illumi looking a little shabby, the scuffs of the days work evident but not overpowering. Other times, he came to Chrollo’s looking haggard and wan. The difference between these two looks was like comparing a comfortable, worn pair of shoes to ones with tears at the seams and soles showing through the bottoms.

Chrollo had brought this to Illumi’s attention a number of times. But to consider his way of addressing the matter as assertive was ridiculous. His inflection never surpassed a tone of gentle inquiry; alas, he spoke like a passive diplomat and had the spine of a limp fish when it came to disciplining Illumi. 

Exhaling, Chrollo now brings his face closer. With his lips hovering over Illumi’s, he says, “I know, I know. Is asking you to take care of yourself too outrageous? Is such a notion too—-“

  
  
“You shouldn’t even consider it.”  
  


Illumi’s voice is so soft he can hardly hear himself. The sound of the grandfather clock in the far corner turns deafening. In this snippet of time, this fleeting frame , neither of them move. They only take each other in, sharing breaths and exchanging body heat. 

“Learn to rest. You need this, Illu.”

  
  
His hands then make their way into the thicket of the model’s hair. His fingertips tickle Illumi’s scalp.

“I can manage.”

  
  
“Not without me, you can’t.”

  
  
He licks Illumi’s lower lip. In response, Illumi cradles Chrollo’s chin, tilting his head upwards. His hair isn’t slicked back tonight, so a couple strands of hair fall into his face. 

“I don’t need you.”

  
  
With one hand, Illumi pulls Chrollo towards him with the belt loops of his pants. 

“And I never did.”

  
  
The light in Chrollo’s eyes has darkened. Illumi can feel his cock against his own. He wants to take it and suck all the cum out of it, to lick it until his entire mouth tasted of Chrollo and only Chrollo. 

He chuckles. “The things I’m going to do to you—-“

“I’m the one who fucks you. And you know this.”

Chrollo looks ready to laugh. But he says nothing.

And really, Illumi doesn’t know just what he’d do if he does laugh, because that meant he doesn’t take his words seriously. For all he knew, Chrollo could have taken his sentences and pondered over them the way he did with those philosophical books he read. His need for control was nothing more than a strange mystery to him, an amusing riddle. 

This begged the question of Illumi’s authority. Because if he didn’t make Chrollo fidget or squirm or cave in on himself, then what was the fucking point?

A fire ignites in Illumi’s chest, red-hot and scalding and too profound for his own good. And then he crashes his lips against Chrollo’s, forcing his mouth open and shoving his tongue inside. 

As Chrollo staggers back with the force of the kiss, Illumi’s hands make their way under his shirt, fingers roving over lean muscle. 

All Illumi wants is to lose himself in his boyfriend. All he wants is to fall into the rhythm of his body, the quiver of his thighs, the jerk of his pelvis. He wants to lose the ability to think, to rationalize; indeed, he just wants to be blinded by this man’s love.

The sound of external affairs could be shushed to a lull. A distant set of concepts on the horizon. The cars whooshing on the highway down below Chrollo’s penthouse would be nothing more than toys. They would serve as a source of entertainment for the couple, a backdrop to enhance their fucking. There is nothing in those tiny cars down below, nor is there anything within the buildings lining the roads other than the lights illuminating the structures. 

Now they’re on his leather chaise lounge. Illumi’s right on top of his boyfriend, grinding his cock against Chrollo’s slender hips. His hair falls around him like a curtain shielding him from the rest of the world, a curtain which let everyone know Chrollo belonged solely to him.

Chrollo begins thrusting his hips against Illumi’s dick. As he arches his back, Illumi works his hand under Chrollo’s pants. He gives his ass a hard squeeze. Chrollo moans into his mouth. 

The sound sets off a chain reaction of ideas in Illumi’s mind, and he’s getting harder by the second. 

He would ruin him beyond belief, make Chrollo scream his name until his voice became a rasp. He would fuck him on his hands and knees and make sure he couldn’t walk for days. 

To think Chrollo would be the one to fuck Illumi up. As if, as if, as if. 

At last, they break the kiss. With his hand still in Chrollo’s pants, Illumi says, “Let’s get in your room.”

  
  
“Of course.”

  
  
“But first…”

  
  
Illumi rips Chrollo’s pants off of him. He tosses them on the glass coffee table. 

“You’re getting a little horny, now.”

  
  
Grunting, he bites the hem of Chrollo’s shirt and peels it upwards. His jaw brushes against Chrollo’s velvet cheek as he does so. Again, Chrollo chuckles. 

“This isn’t funny.”

“Your dick is so unbelievably hard.”

  
  
His voice is a breathy whisper. It feels like a taunting feather, a tickle Illumi can’t counteract. The heat in his face rises like a tsunami approaching shore.

Chrollo’s nipple piercings glint in the low light. The knots of his silk thong are loose at the hips, and the front piece hangs dangerously low. 

The sensation in Illumi’s cock is almost painful. He turns his head away, redirecting his line of sight to the fireplace. 

“Hey,” Chrollo tucks a strand of hair behind the model’s ear, “Don’t be shy. Let me see that pretty face of yours.”

  
  
“J-Just get up.”

“Hmm?” 

Chrollo shifts beneath Illumi. Now his cock is positioned right under his ass.

“ _I said get up._ ”

“With my clothes all over the place? Illumi, you know I hate—-“  
  


Illumi swings both legs over Chrollo’s hips. Afterwards, he rises. 

In the wavering candlelight, Chrollo’s skin takes on a golden tone. It’s rich, smooth, and comforting——seeing him in this hue reminded Illumi of olive trees dotting the Mediterrenean coast. He has a refined vigor to him, a vivacity Illumi dreams of. 

Illumi crosses his arms over his chest, ignoring the way his legs feel like jelly. He levels his voice. 

“I’m waiting.” 

“I know you are.”

  
  
Chrollo proceeds to sit up with the painstaking slowness of one waking from a deep slumber. His biceps flex as he props himself on the arm of the chair. His thong slips lower yet, and when he makes eye contact with Illumi, a tooth-rotting grin graces his features. 

The heat in Illumi’s chest heightens. Before he realizes it, he’s striding towards Chrollo and pulling him off the lounge by his hair. 

“Ahh—-shit. That hurt,”

“Just hurry up. Fucking slut.”

“You’re...so angry today, something up?”

He says this last statement in a croon. His voice has turned deep and full.

  
  
“You don’t give a fuck about how I feel right now.”

There's a short pause. 

“You’re right. I don’t.” 

They’ve arrived at the door of Chrollo’s bedroom. Illumi kicks it open and drags Chrollo behind him. When he slams Chrollo into the mattress, he wastes no time undoing his thong. 

And then his cock is in Illumi’s mouth, and he’s moving up and down the length of it, his spit coating the shaft. He makes sure to lick the tip every time he reaches the bottom. 

It’s not long before precum gathers at the tip of it. Naturally, Illumi sucks it all out of Chrollo’s dick. 

“Oh...oh....Illu....”

Chrollo wraps his legs around Illumi’s neck. He pulls him closer with the bottom of his heels. In return, Illumi’s grabs both of Chrollo’s thighs, nails digging into the muscled, sinewy flesh. He brings his mouth to the base of Chrollo’s cock. 

He lets out a choke. He can’t fit all of it in his mouth, so some of it grazes the back of his throat. 

Nevertheless, Illumi stays in that position for a couple beats, absorbing the flavor of Chrollo’s meat, relishing how much his dick has grown in his mouth. 

Eventually, he picks up the pace, going faster and faster and faster. Sweat gathers along Illumi’s brow. He can barely breathe. But he can feel more juice leaking out of Chrollo, and if that wasn’t enough to keep him going, he didn’t know what was.

  
  
Chrollo begins bucking his groin. His thighs rub against Illumi’s cheeks, the texture of them supple and plush and ripe. Illumi is suffocating within the prison of his boyfriend’s flesh, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Yet Illumi is considering giving up,tapping out——because he knows he can’t go much longer. More blood rushes to his head with each round, and the room is starting to look hazy. Edges of objects are blurred and soft. Illumi’s mind buzzes with the possibilities of what could come of his recklessness, though he is quick to shroud this with great vehemence. 

Chrollo’s cum shoots out then, warm and stretchy and almost gelatinous. 

Illumi swallows it without hesitating. 

“You’re such a….good boy….there we go….”

  
  
Illumi scowls. Shoving Chrollo back, his dick flies out of his mouth. His back hits the headboard with a bang.

“You submit to me.”

Chrollo smirks. And that’s enough to get Illumi to smash his chest into the mattress.

  
  
With one hand pressed against the small of Chrollo’s back, Illumi uses the other one to unzip his fly and slide his underwear off. His shirt is still on though, and it’s not until now that he notices he’s been fully dressed this entire time. 

“Get the lube.”

  
  
“Do not tell me what to do.”

  
  
Illumi reaches for the lube anyway. As he rubs it on his dick, he stares at Chrollo’s ass. Each cheek is light and untainted. There is not a blemish to be found on the expanse of it. 

He checks the clock on Chrollo’s nightstand. The second hand flies across the face of it, taunting Illumi, telling him that he only had a limited amount of time to keep Chrollo engaged, to keep him occupied. There was no telling where Chrollo’s mind would go if Illumi didn’t perform action after action without leaving him to recuperate. 

Illumi tosses the bottle of lube aside. And then he siddles up right behind Chrollo, the fabric of his jeans rubbing against his bare ass. 

“Won’t you take off your clothes?”

Even though Illumi can’t see Chrollo’s face, he knows exactly how low his brows fall above his dark eyes, his signature smirk only broadening. Illumi can picture the alignment of every feature, and he hates what he’s about to see.

  
  
“You’re the whore.”

  
  
Chrollo looks over his shoulder. And despite the predictability of it all, Illumi’s heart seizes in his chest. 

“Am I your whore?”

  
  
If Illumi hadn’t been dating him for two years, he wouldn’t have been able to distinguish the sincerity in his tone from the true satirical ruse he was spinning. 

Thinking about this makes it hard for Illumi to see. Maroon tints cloud his vision, and everything is distorted. He needs to destroy Chrollo, crush him into a billion pieces. Illumi wants him to scream his name at the top of his lungs, begging him for mercy, begging for him to stop. 

But he must wait. And he must control himself. 

So for now, Illumi slides in two fingers. He needs to make sure Chrollo is stretched out. 

His pace starts off slow enough, and his slender fingers slide in with ease. Chrollo’s asshole seems looser than it used to be. 

Illumi’s aware it’s absurd to grow pressed about a matter so miniscule, but he doesn’t give a damn. Not at this point. 

“Have you been fucking someone else?"

  
  
His voice is low and dangerous. Illumi brings his lips to Chrollo’s ear and pulls at one earring, hoping his question has cut through him like a razor-edged pendulum. 

“Never.”

  
  
“You’re loose.”

  
  
Leaning away, Illumi proceeds to jam four fingers in. 

“Ahh..oh fuck…”

  
  
“You’re lying.”

  
  
“No...I’m...not..”

  
  
He starts pulling his fingers in and out at a breakneck pace, and Chrollo doesn’t bother stifling a moan. His asshole is warm and moist from the inside. It’s getting even looser by the minute, and when Illumi’s able to easily slip in all four fingers, he relinquishes his touch.

“No one, and I mean no one——“

  
  
Illumi sinks his dick into Chrollo’s anus. 

“No one will fuck you,”

He grabs each of Chrollo’s ass cheeks and spreads them apart. 

“As good as I can.”

Illumi drives his dick in harder, relishing the way Chrollo lets out a groan. Both his hands grip the mattress, and with every plunge, the bed’s headboard bangs against the wall. 

The springs beneath the both of them lets out sporadic squeaks, and the curtains draped around Chrollo’s bedroom window flutter out and towards the bed. Laughter and the wail of sirens sound from far, far below. In addition to the noises which have floated into Chrollo’s bedroom, the smell of fried food from street carts wafts right through the threshold and around their sweat-slicked forms. This is a constant, chiding reminder of Illumi’s empty stomach, of the hunger gradually gnawing right to the surface of his consciousness. 

“You...need to...go harder…”

Illumi thrusts his hips. Chrollo buries his head into the pillow. His pants can be heard through the thick fabric. 

“Fuck...fuck..fuck…”

Illumi growls into Chrollo’s ear.

  
  
“Is that enough now? Is it?”

“Ugh...I….”

  
  
Illumi rams his cock in further. A gasp escapes Chrollo. It’s getting harder to hold his cum in, and the struggle he’s faced when trying to stick his cock into Chrollo has not been helping. Even with all the stretching he’d undergone beforehand, Illumi’s still having trouble getting inside him. 

This must hurt, it has to, so witnessing Chrollo let this little noise escape is impressive. 

And it’s infuriating. Illumi wants to consume Chrollo, he needs to, he won’t stop until this man is filled to the brim with him and nobody else. 

“Who’s...your master?” Illumi snarls, dragging his nails down Chrollo’s spine, “Huh?”

Chrollo shudders. 

“Illumi...Illumi…”  
  
“Keep saying my name,” Illumi breathes, “Just keep going.”

“Loomi...Loo...Ahh…”

He can’t take it anymore. The pressure in his cock has become a mounting burden that’s overshadowed all other parts of his being. His senses are muddled with feverish ardor, and he must regain autonomy. 

Illumi cums right into Chrollo.

The next affair goes as follows: Illumi draws his dick, slips up his underwear, does his fly. He gets off the bed and looks down at Chrollo. He’s covered in his scratches, covered in his cum. He’s roadkill that’s been hit by multiple cars like a tennis ball, getting tossed from one side of the road to the other, getting more and more flattened before finally falling into a ditch. 

“Lick my cum.”

Chrollo is still dazed, eyes glazed over. Illumi flips him onto his back and slaps him across the face. 

“ _I said lick my cum!”_

He has the audacity to laugh. It’s weak and thready now, but it’s a laugh nonetheless. 

Still, Chrollo obeys. He traces one finger around his anus and collects the cum around it with three fingertips. The sound he makes when sucking it off is wet and full. 

“That’s good. That’s really good.”

  
  
He pats Chrollo on the head and leaves, just like that. He hopes that’ll teach him not to let his ego inflate around him, not when Illumi is like this. His tolerance for bullshit is already running low, and Chrollo should’ve taken heed of this. The man had seen how high-strung Illumi was, so he really should’ve fucking known. 

“Hey, are you not going to—-“

“Clean yourself up. Stupid slut.”

  
  
And then Illumi blocks out the rest of his sentence. 

***

It is 2:00 a.m when Illumi returns home. 

Shortly after he unlocks the door and crosses the threshold, he makes a beeline to Killua’s room. The door has been left ajar. Faint blue light emits through the doorway. 

Poking a head in, Illumi is met with the sight of his brother snuggled beneath the covers. 

He nearly sighs with relief, though he is able to hold back. Illumi wouldn’t want to risk waking Killua up, no matter how unlikely the circumstance was. The boy could’ve probably slept through a tornado. 

His eyes linger on him for some time. Then he focuses his attention on the blue nightlight by the window. It’s in the shape of a rocket. Inside, an alien navigates the ship. 

Years had passed since he had purchased that trinket. When he’d first gifted it to Kil on his fourth birthday, his entire face had lit up like the moon on a crystal clear night, his porcelain skin seeming to glow with joy. Kil had gone on to wrap his arms tight around Illumi’s legs, face smushed against the side of one thigh. The affection radiating off him made Illumi bashful; and, not knowing how to react, he’d simply patted Kil’s head, his other arm hanging limply at his side. 

That had been one of the last times his brother had embraced him. Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he’d attempted to hug Kil now——though he knew he’d never be the instigator. 

Regardless, seeing how Kil still used his nightlight almost made Illumi smile. If everything between them dissolved, if the splintered thread linking the two of them finally snapped, if they never spoke again once Kil became legal, Illumi was willing to bet he’d keep that gift beside him. 

He did it now, and Illumi knew he didn’t love him. Had he been able to go off and live with his friend Gon or maybe even Kurapika, he wouldn’t have hesitated. The fact that he continued to use the nightlight in spite of their current relationship must’ve meant something, albeit trivial. 

Illumi wants to reach out and take Kil by the shoulders and beg him for answers. He needs to know why Kil has been acting this way ever since he’s gained custody over him. Waking him up would only leave him pissed——and this didn’t mean he’d refrain from providing answers. Kil was a lot of things, but, if asked, he always told the entire truth, no matter how biting it may have been. 

He sets one foot into Killua’s bedroom. Then he halts. 

Did he want answers? Did he really want to know what made Kil a delinquent? He’d avoided certain questions for this long. What convinced him he was ready now? 

He turns to the nightlight again. His eyes linger on the little alien’s face for some time. The silence of the night is stagnant, and the longer he keeps his eyes on the alien, the more it appears to pop out of the rocket, looking bigger than it truly was, seeming so bright it nearly burned through his retinas, leaving an unsightly afterimage in the process. 

Illumi briefly squeezes his eyes shut. When he turns to go back to his bedroom, legs leaden and feet dragging, Illumi gets another text from Chrollo. 

_I was expecting a goodbye._

Illumi shuts his phone off and slides it in his back pocket. Once in his room, he lets himself fall atop the bed. He takes to staring at the ceiling, waiting for the strength to lift himself up. His eyes trail along the ceiling’s streaked paint. 

In spite of it being a quarter past two, he still had to contact Bisky. Tomorrow he’d have to be on the set early. He had matters to discuss with her. Turning his head to the right, Illumi reaches for his laptop. 

It has stayed in the same place from last night, a reminder of what he’d planned to do. While the impulse now seemed distant and nonexistent, he wondered if the idea on the horizons of his mind would eventually come to surface at the shore.

Illumi opens up the laptop anyway, letting out a short breath. Once he’s logged into his profile, he navigates over to his email. There’s a message from Bisky in his inbox. Illumi clicks on it. 

_Promotional modeling. We’ll have to discuss this one. I mean, I’m sure you know what it means to be the main face of Firestarter. Still, I think you should mull over this decision——your demeanor doesn’t lend itself to this sort of thing. If you’re still considering it, meet in my office tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll think about it._

Illumi’s hands remained poised above the keyboard. When he starts typing out a sentence, he immediately goes back and erases it. 

He’d already contemplated the hardships that would come with promotional modeling. He knew of smiles and social event after social event, the pressure to look impeccable even after the shoot ended. He’d been acquainted with the notion of interacting with clientele, maintaining a false sense of interest in all their endeavors, whether they had questions about the clothing itself or praise to dish out. 

In short, yes, Illumi was aware he’d be putting himself through the ringer. This was going to test him like no other job had before——and he’s worked in retail. 

Yet that didn’t mean he couldn’t do it. And he’d already considered other alternatives to propelling his name out there. He may’ve been near the top of Firestarter’s food chain, except in the grand scheme of things, that didn’t mean much. He never made the front of their billboards, let alone their season catalogues.

To ensure he’d be recognized by companies like Gemstone and Arthea, he’d have to make sure they knew of him before reaching out. It didn’t matter how elegant or ethereal his aura was——-if they didn’t know who Illumi was prior to receiving his call, he wouldn’t stand a chance. Compared to Firestarter, Gemstone and Arthea were massive tycoons, their names spoken on the lips of models and agents alike with giddy awe.

Illumi begins typing again.

_I’m well aware of what this occupation entails. It doesn’t alter my stance on it. Does meeting first thing tomorrow morning work for you?_

When he hits send, he runs a hand through his hair, hoping for the best. He’ll do anything to thrive, to ascend to the canopy of success, and Bisky must understand this.

She must.


	3. CHAINSMOKING ON THE OUTSIDE

  
Black coffee and creaky seats and blinding fluorescents. That’s the scene Illumi’s in, the one Bisky’s graced him with. Neither of them have muttered their greetings, nor have they even made eye contact. 

Right now, Bisky sits at her computer, typing away incessantly to whatever new CEO she’s decided to worship. Illumi wonders how much money this one has, whether they have biceps the size of Bisky’s head, or if they even take to solitaire the way she does. Bisky hopped from man to woman and woman to man, each one possessing wildly different characteristics——though one thing remained consistent: they were all more successful than her in some way or another. 

In this regard, her motives were clear enough. However, when confronted about her bootlicking tendencies, and why exactly she felt the need to pursue relationships at every turn, Bisky had simply swept her genuine commitment issues beneath the rug, claiming she just needed more connections. _It’s a big world_ , she’d say, _and even bigger when you know how to maximize opportunities._

Then, turning her head and spitting on the floor , she’d add, _everything’s all about leverage. That’s what we’re all dealing with, manipulating or being manipulated , and until you learn the former art, you’re not going anywhere._

To punctuate her statement, she’d spit on the floor again. She always had to do that——especially when making the ground-breaking claims she repeated with every pep talk. Perhaps the mere act of spitting let her listener know the world yielded to her ; indeed, by marking her territory, she made it evident that no one controlled her. 

And as much as Illumi hated the way she hacked and hollered at every minor inconvenience, he understood the reason behind it. Keeping up a particular facade was integral to success.

The coffee in Illumi’s hands has gone cold. He can see his reflection in the dark liquid. His eyes look even bigger than normal, the stubborn bags circling them making him resemble a zombie. His chin also seems pointier now, more prominent.

Illumi had only downed a Five Hour Energy before leaving the house. He’d also avoided packing lunch altogether, instead buying 2 Red Bull’s on the way to work.

He didn’t know how today would turn out. He was sure there wouldn’t be much to do though. If Illumi could convince Bisky to let him snag this job, then all would be well. Now it was just a matter of achieving that end goal. 

At last, Bisky hits send and turns to Illumi.

“Hey, champ! Lookin’ like a million bucks today, aren’t ya?”

“I’m just tired.”

She lets out a cackle. One giggle had exploded into a torrent of guffaws, rich and hearty and genuine. Illumi has to stop himself from leaning away.

Bisky takes a breath, now continuing on. 

“That’s what they all say, Loomi. But,” she stops mid sentence to slurp her frappuccino. 

Illumi perks his ears while waiting. In the following moments of silence, the whir of the air conditioner becomes deafening. 

It’s been that way since last year, and Bisky’s avoided fixing it. Sometimes it would blow at full blast, the constant torrent of cool air making Firestarter resemble a meat freezer. During these times, everyone would bustle around wearing layers, and some of the stylists on Illumi’s team would wear gloves. 

When the air conditioner wasn’t blowing enough air to freeze-dry the lashes on Illumi’s face, it simply didn’t work at all. This meant it’d be sweltering in the summer, and so some of the stylists on his team would opt for tank tops or short sleeved shirts. Others would simply frequent their job with half the buttons undone on their shirt.

“I want to ask you a question.”

  
  
Illumi raises a brow, signaling for her to go on. 

“Why in the hell do you want to be a runway model? Are ya even aware of the sheer amount of stress they undergo?”

“I wouldn’t have wanted to become one if I didn’t know about all the troubles.”

  
  
“I’d believe you if you weren’t asking to become one _now_.”

  
  
“Pardon?”

“You can’t just jump from being a catalogue model to catwalking on a runway in Paris. There are steps.”

  
  
“I know that. I just wanted to make my ultimate motive clear.”

  
  
“Huh. Let’s start with promotional modelling, then.” 

“I’m okay with that.”

  
  
“Well, you’re gonna have to be.” 

Bisky proceeds to kick her feet up on the table, reaching for her frappuccino once more. 

In this position, she appears unbothered, as if Illumi’s attempt to further his career meant nothing to her. As if she talked with him because she had nothing better to do.

“Anyway, I’m just gonna go ahead and explain what you’ll be doing in the weeks to come.”

  
  
“I already know what promotional modeling involves.”

  
  
“Bit of revision never hurt.”  
  


She spits into the tin at the base of her desk. The sound which emits is a light clang. 

Behind Bisky’s upholstered swivel chair, a window looks out onto the atrium. The walls are painted a deep red, and the floor’s dark tiles have been polished to the point where they gleam. 

Every department is separated and sectioned off. At each corner there is a door opening to either the salon, the makeup wing, the collective closet, or the management offices. 

Illumi scans the entirety of the atrium, but he isn’t sure who he’s looking for. 

Though perhaps he wasn’t looking for anyone at all. Maybe he just wanted to lose himself in the lives of other people, observing the way they went about matters, making judgements from afar. A birdseye view into the lives of others provided him with a sense of comfort, one which reminded him he wasn’t alone.

Bisky clears her throat. 

“So, basically, you’ll be modelling outfits. And there’ll be a variety of models on the set. You’ll be in pictures with them.”

Still, she’s not providing him with any new information. The silver lining around this was that he could settle back and keep zoning out, his blank stare remaining situated over Bisky’s head. 

There is a brief burst of shuffling in the atrium. Once the cluster of people have parted, a blond man appears to be making his way towards the management offices. Illumi lasers his attention onto the back of his head. 

He looks awfully familiar; the petite build, the fluffy blond hair, the long silk robes. From here, Illumi is able to distinguish his stride from others. This man walks with purpose and conviction and determination. He’s a stag in the midst of a herd of sheep, his presence exquisite and piercing. He may not stand tall, but anyone could pick him out from a crowd——and there wasn’t any particular reason why.

No; this matter simply was. 

“Hey, Zoldyck, ya listening?”

  
  
Illumi blinks. “Go on. I was following.”

  
  
Bisky scowls at him, mouth downturned at both corners. Then she continues. 

“Of course, you’ll have a number of solo shoots. But a lot of them won’t be. Also, there’ll be an audience.”

Fuck.

  
  
“There’ll be an audience?”

“Thought you did your research? Glad I’m telling ya this now, eh?”  
  


The doubt on her face was beyond evident. The one time he’d slipped up and let an error fall through the cracks had been the time she decided to eat his error up, wallow in it and shove it in his face till he grew nauseated from his own imperfections. 

“Anyways, yeah, some people come to these sorts of things just for the hell of it. There won’t be tons of eyes on you though——so no need to worry.”

  
  
Bisky hesitates.

“But...an audience shouldn’t make you antsy. Not if you want to be a runway model.”

  
“I suppose it’s a good thing that I’m going through certain steps before I get to be a runway model...I do think being a promotional model should help, actually. ”

Bisky purses her lips. Scowling, her voice rises steadily. 

“You need to take this more seriously. Do you even know what this means? You’re about to be the face of our company.”

“How am I not taking this seriously?”

  
  
“Your tone. It’s light and noncommittal, like you’re talking about where you’re gonna get lunch this afternoon. You act like, if you want to walk the runway, you have a multitude of options——and we both know this is your only chance. Your only shot.”

  
  
“Hmmm.”

  
  
“Don’t ‘hmm’ me! This is an opportunity for the both of us. And I don’t know why I hadn’t considered this before. You’d make an excellent tool for Firestarter to grow even larger, and if you go off to be a runway model……..well, we might be on the cusp of becoming a household name. And this means you _can’t afford to mess up_.”

  
“I see.”

  
  
“With your looks, you’ll have everyone drawn to you. My other promo kiddos are stellar at their jobs, and they’re all darling——but they’re not you. You’ll blow through this whole thing so easy, tons of other companies are gonna wanna recruit ya.”

“That’s good. Isn’t it?”

“Sure, but don’t you even think about transferring to any other company.”

  
  
Of course not. If there was anything Illumi was faithful to, it was his roots. That meant he’d do all he could to make sure his agency continued to improve, expand and skyrocket into the kingdom of prosperity. 

At least for now.

“But like I said. I’m not letting you go anywhere till you take this more seriously. First ya zone out for half of the conversation, and then you talk about a discussion _you_ wanted to have as if it’s full of nuances, or like you have somewhere else to be. Honestly, I’m reconsidering. I really am.”

Illumi starts a sentence, yet nothing coherent comes of it. 

“Loomi, loomi, loomi. You poor thing.”

“I..I’m truly not trying to make it seem like I don’t care. I just don’t think showing earnesty is professional.”

  
  
“The way you’re acting now ain’t professional either, son.”

  
  
Bisky turns back to her computer. 

“I know you’re not one for words. But how you present yourself has told me more than I need to know. Say you want to stay aloof even when we talk, okay, fine. I’m used to that. But it doesn’t account for how you don’t think you need to pay super close attention or be engaged in this discussion. I’m aware you trust yourself a lot, maybe enough to be perfect.”

  
  
Illumi grits his teeth.

“And that’s awful.”  
  


“You know, I reckon you’ve already let the fame get to you. Thing is that it hasn’t even begun, not really. Just because you hear all these people dote on you behind your back doesn’t mean you should start believing it. I say this because you’re acting like a snob, and you have been for a while now. So think of this as food for the thought.”

  
  
“Am I being promoted, then?”

“God, you’re dense. Did you not understand anything I just said?”

Illumi cocks his head to the side . Bisky holds up a hand. 

“Don’t even try acting confused. I’m not sure I can just let you take on a job with—-“

  
  
“You’re talking as if you want to promote me, but you won’t let yourself.”

  
  
“That doesn’t make sense.”

  
  
“Why won’t you promote me? I know I may have come off as inconsiderate today, but that doesn’t mean I won’t take the job seriously.”

  
  
“God. Fuck, you really don’t get it. You really, really don’t.”

  
  
Bisky buries her face in her hands. Her red nails poke through the nest of her blond hair. 

Illumi crosses his legs around the ankles. He buries his hands into his jacket pockets. His shoulders are drawn inwards, the balls of them nearly parallel to his ears, making himself appear smaller and smaller and smaller.  
  


At last, Bisky raises her head. Then she tells Illumi to get his ass out of her office. 

Her message gets interpreted a few moments late, the signal in his mind lagging. External cues are interpreted through a lazy current of water, matters warped and fuzzy.

Like the smog muddling his mind, his limbs are heavy and leaden when he rises. It takes everything to get out of that goddamned chair——and he’s more than aware why that is. 

  
Therefore, on his way out, Illumi doesn’t spare her a second glance. She didn’t even deserve a farewell, a parting word. She thought him to be worthless, a mere piece of scum, and so, in return, he would return these beliefs. 

The door falls shut a little too hard. 

***

At the end of the day, Illumi considers stopping on the way home to visit the post office.There’s a stack of letters sitting in the back of his car, most of which he'd meant to mail out months prior.

He mainly wrote to tell his parents how Seattle life was treating him and Kil. Occasionally he’d dedicate letters to Kalluto or Milluki. He stopped after they didn’t bother replying to his first few ones. 

Being that his Father’s birthday was coming up, he found that the letters lingering in his Prius couldn’t sit around much longer. Since the rest of his family lived back in New York, it’d probably take a while for them to come in. Illumi hoped a week gave him enough time to mail the letters on time. 

Reaching into his pocket for a cigarette, a coil loosens from within Illumi’s gut. He stops walking to light it, and once he brings the fag to his lips, his back is to the wall. His hair blows in the lilting breeze. 

Across Firestarter, there’s a Shell gas station. Right now, there were a couple cars stationed beside gas tanks. There are also two people hanging around the front of the station’s building, talking amongst themselves, laughing at each other’s words, the distance between them gradually closing. 

Illumi focuses his attention elsewhere. A car whooshes by, the bass blaring. His eyes chase it, trying to find out who’s behind the wheel, but the car has already turned the bend before he can. 

He speculates if the car belongs to that blond boy in the atrium. He had only seen him enter the headquarters, so it was possible he could’ve left just now. 

As far as he could tell, the car had also come out from Firestarter’s parking lot. Illumi briefly recalls hearing the rev of an engine as he lit his cigarette. 

The only thing which confounded him was the blaring bass. In spite of watching the man from afar, he didn’t strike him as the type to drive fast or blast music. Rather, he came across as a man of sophistication, one who didn’t fall prey to the cheap appeal of fast living. It just wouldn’t make sense for him to pose in a certain manner around others, concealing what lay beneath. 

But nevermind that now. It was getting late; most of Illumi’s coworkers had clocked out two hours before. He needed to head over to the post office and get home in time to make Killua dinner. 

llumi’s stomach lets out a raucous growl. In response, he lights another cigarette. 

The thought of grabbing food from the gas station comes to mind. He reckoned it wouldn’t take more than five minutes to get inside the building and buy a snack. It’s been over 18 hours since his last meal, and, as of late, he’s been having dizzy spells. Black spots frequented his vision more often than he’d liked, unwelcome beetles blocking his already abysmal eyesight.

When he prepares to leave for Shell, llumi hears approaching footsteps. They're light, but the click of the wearer’s heels gives them away. Looking over his shoulder, he sees Morow ambling towards him, his posture loose and open. An equally easy smile plays upon his lips. 

Once he’s right beside Illumi, he speaks. The scent of his cologne is cloying. 

“Hey,” Hisoka takes in Illumi’s face then, light brown eyes scanning his features. 

“Shit. You look like you’ve got hit by a car. And I know you have makeup on.”

  
  
“Is that a way to greet someone?”

“I mean, I’d want to know if I looked that awful.”

  
  
“Fuck you.”

  
  
Illumi throws his cigarette onto the pavement, crushing it with the toe of his boot. 

“You weren’t even all the way through that one.”

  
  
“Why are you talking to me?”

“Good question. Guess you make decent company.”

“I am not here to entertain you.”

Illumi begins walking away. He hears the click of Morow’s shoes follow. 

“Are you just gonna leave me hanging like that?”

  
  
“There was never a conversation to begin with.”

  
  
“You’re being an asshole!”

  
  
“I don’t care!”

  
  
As he puts distance between them, Illumi continually raises his voice to be heard. 

“I’m bored, you know!”

  
  
“That is your prob—-“

  
  
Illumi trails off as he arrives at his car. His heart seizes in his chest, beats turning from low and steady into a frantic, fleeting rhythm, resembling that of a hummingbird. He curses to himself.

Only the bare axles remain on his car. Both the front and back of his Prius lay flat on the ground, headlights glaring up at Illumi. 

“I didn’t know you drove a Prius.” Morow’s voice, once again, sounds from beside him. 

“Why does this matter now?!”

  
  
Hisoka raises two hands. “Just an interesting observation.”

“Can you not keep your mouth shut for one _fucking_ second?”

Morow says nothing to this.

  
  
Taking a deep breath, Illumi turns around and calls up AAA. 

As they discuss the details of how the night will commence, Illumi catches Morow watching him from the corner of his eye. There’s a light in his eyes, and his mouth is quirked up at one corner, be it ever so slightly. 

Did this man ever _not_ smile? What could he possibly find so amusing about the fact that he had no way to get home? Did he truly find his helplessness to be a source of entertainment? How far gone did someone have to be to derive joy from this?

Illumi glowers to himself, redirecting his attention to the employee on the other end. 

“Yes——when do you think you will get here to tow it?”

There’s a pause on the other end. Illumi nods. 

“I see. Alright then. I can wait.”

Illumi slips his phone into his pocket, switching it out for yet another cigarette. 

“How many packs do you go through in a day?”

  
  
“That is none of your business.”

  
  
“I’m willing to guess three.”

  
  
“Sometimes.”

  
  
“There we go.”

  
  
“Pardon?”

  
  
“You just told me how much you smoke.”

  
  
“Can you ever take a hint?”

  
  
“You know, I think you ought to weigh out your chances here. You don’t have a ride, and it looks like you’ve only got one option if you want to make it home.”

  
  
“I am not asking you for a ride. I am better than that.”

  
  
“You don’t think AAA is going to dish one out to you, do you?”

  
  
Illumi takes a long drag from his cigarette.

“Jesus Christ. That smells awful.”

  
  
“May I remind you that you’re the one who has decided to speak to me?”

“Don’t fuck yourself over. This isn’t the time.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

  
  
“Your parents live around here?”

  
  
Illumi shakes his head. And then, without warning, he’s making his way over to his car and unlocking the doors to the back seat. Grabbing a backpack laying on the floor of his car, he starts arranging his letters in stacks. As he places them in his bag, Morow comments on his behavior. 

  
“What’s this?”  
  


His hand reaches for a letter. 

“ _Don’t touch that!_ ”

  
  
“To Kikyo and Silva Zoldyck. This is cute.”

Illumi spins around and rips the letter from Morow’s hand. His acrylics tear an opening in the front of it. A gash adorns a portion of the address.

Also, their faces are inches apart. 

Hisoka’s cheekbones are made sharp in the harsh light emitting from the street lamps. His chin comes down to a diabolical point, and his plush lips are half open, mouth permanently stuck in a position where he’s getting ready to shoot another retort.

Their breaths intermingle in this frame, and Illumi’s aware his nostrils are flaring. His cheeks have become unbelievably warm as well. Here, the darkness of the night did no good to hide his blush, for the street lamps counteracted all of the night’s potential to conceal.

The sole thing Illumi finds himself grateful for is the breeze; it cools the heat boiling beneath his skin. 

Alternately, it also causes Illumi’s locks to blow around Morow’s figure, closing the distance between them further yet. 

With each passing minute the warmth grows stronger——and so does the sensation which floods his lower extremities. The feeling is especially strong in between Illumi’s legs. The breath is caught in his throat, and his mind is empty. 

Thus, what he does now is he takes a step back, quickly shoving the letter into his backpack. He proceeds to sling it over both shoulders. Illumi must prioritize the matter at hand, nevermind Morow or how those frames had shaken the ground beneath him, questioning all he previously thought to be in place.

“I need to...check up on AAA.” 

“I don’t think you do. They’re coming right around the bend here.”  
  


Illumi squints. He searches for the truck, although he is unable to find it. All he sees are blurs zipping by. 

“It’s over there, see?”

Morow points to the tow truck without him having to ask. It enters the parking lot in the next minute.

When the AAA employee reverses into the spot beside the Prius, they extend the lift outwards, taking the vehicle from beneath. It drags along the ground for some time before it is lifted upwards. 

“They’re going to damage the undercarriage of my car. And to think they were professional.”

  
  
Illumi crosses his arms over his chest, resuming his watch over the exchange. He shakes his head as his car is secured into the lift. 

“Fuck. Who’s even behind the wheel of that goddamned truck?!”

“You sound like you want to sue.”

  
  
“I would if I had the money.”

Illumi casts him a glance. He realizes Morow is shaking with laughter. 

“Go home. I’m sick of putting up with you.”

  
  
“And where’s your ride?”

“Why do you care so much?!”

  
  
“Well, what can I say? You’re my favorite client. Of course I’d have to care.”

  
  
Morow extends a hand towards Illumi’s hair. Illumi slaps it away. 

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Someone’s feisty.”

And he had every reason to be. 

Getting his phone out of his pocket, Illumi opens up the app store. When he taps on the Uber icon, it begins downloading. 

“Thought of that solution kind of late——oh, that’s a shame.”

His phone screen goes dark at that very moment, an empty battery flashing on it. The symbol lingers there for a second. 

“I’ll find a way, I have to, this simply won’t do, I—-”

  
  
“Just swallow your pride and get in my car.”

Their eyes find each other. Maybe Illumi’s imagining it, what with the lack of food in his stomach and the late hour imposing a bit more of an influence than he’d like, though he thinks Morow’s eyes are a little soft around the edges, twin daggers turned to butter knives. 

***

“I need to make a few stops before I can drop you home.”

“Make it quick.”

“I’m the one driving you, model boy.”

Illumi rolls the window down and shoves a hand into one pocket.

“Don’t tell me you’re smoking again.”

“At least I have the sense to roll your window down.”

Hisoka scoffs, switching on the radio. He turns the knob until the number on the display is at 70. The bass shakes the rearview mirror. 

“Can you turn that off?”

  
  
“My car, my rules.”

  
  
Illumi resorts to watching the scenery out his window. He tucks his hair into his shirt as Morow’s car picks up speed. 

“Where do you even need to go this late?”

“You say something?”

  
  
Illumi shouts to be heard. Hisoka nods when he understands his message.

  
  
“I need to pick up something from the dry cleaners. Then get food.”

Illumi says nothing. Instead, he listens to the lyrics of the song playing. It sounds like something by Elton John. However, he’s not sure what its name is. 

As the two of them approach a stoplight, Morow begins skipping songs on his playlist. With each song passed, a little _blip!_ sounds, and Morow continues to do so till the stoplight turns green. He’s skipped at least a dozen songs in the time in between.

“How indecisive are you?”

“Only a little.”

Illumi tosses his cigarette out the window.

“If you light another I’m kicking you out. Right now.”

Illumi’s hand hovers over the package in his pocket. Hesitating, he removes the last one. By the time the fag is nestled between his lips, Morow reaches over the console, rips it from Illumi’s mouth, and shoves it beneath his ass.

“That was my last one, idiot.”

  
  
“I told you not to fucking smoke. If you want your cancer stick now, it’ll just have my ass germs all over it.”

“I hope it gets stuck up there.”

  
  
“Too bad I’m wearing pants.”

  
  
Other than the music shaking Morow’s sleazy Honda, neither of them speak for the rest of the ride. Despite the distracting nature of the current atmosphere, Illumi is able to regress into an internal monologue, the buildings outside serving as reminders for what he had to do once he got home. 

He would need to file a claim to insurance on behalf of what had happened tonight. And he couldn’t help but ponder who had chosen his car to rip all the tires off of his Prius. He didn’t have bad blood with anyone, not really, so the notion of an individual doing this heightened his guard to a dreadful degree. 

Illumi’s shoulders tense up. The road he’s previously had his eyes on turns blurry, black spots creeping back up in his vision. The floor beneath him sways, and it’s as if everything is lined in a haze. 

He grabs onto the window crank, face pale. 

Closing his eyes, Illumi tries steadying his breath. Morow just had to stop at the dry cleaners. Then they would get food. It really wouldn’t be long. 

They take an exit in the next few minutes before merging onto a highway. The needle on Hisoka’s dashboard climbs higher and higher. 

Illumi takes to checking the speed limit. He forces a sentence out. 

“You’re going twenty over,”

  
“Huh?”

  
“I said you’re going 20 over!”  
  


“Mind your own business!”

  
“I hardly think I should when you’re driving ninety miles an hour!”

Illumi’s voice is raw and ragged, his head is pounding, and his stomach has managed to climb its way up to his throat. The longer he had to spend in Morow’s vehicle, the more he had trouble staying sane. Staying conscious. 

But passing out right beside him wasn’t an option. He couldn’t allow himself to do that. 

Illumi fights the urge to squeeze his eyes shut. The sound of Hisoka’s car engine resembles a whine, a plead, a beg for him to quit flooring it. 

He couldn’t wrap his head around how anyone could be this reckless. How could Hisoka drive along a highway (albeit empty) at a speed where turning at an exit could flip the car over?

“Please slow down. Please.”

“You’re acting like I don’t know how to drive.”

“If you don’t be more careful—-“

Hisoka removes one hand from the wheel and places a finger on Illumi’s lips. The feeling is cool and soothing. The tip of one acrylic nail lays against his septum.

“Shhh, shhh. We’re slowing down now, see?”

The previous roar of the engine dies down as it is reduced to a tame hum.

Letting go of the window crank, Illumi squints at the road ahead. Both of them come onto a main street shortly. In the following moments Hisoka has parked in front of Nobunaga’s Dry Cleaning Supercenter. 

He proceeds to shut the car off, lock the doors, and look over his shoulder. Morow’s driver door is propped wide open. One foot sits outside, waiting patiently. 

The other is pointed in Illumi’s direction.

“What are you waiting for?”

  
  
“I was just gonna ask if you wanted the AC on.”

Illumi’s breath hitches. He can’t tear his eyes away from the way Morow only has half the buttons on his shirt done. The gap between both sets of cloth displays the tattoos adorning the contours of his freckled chest.

It was hot, that much was true——though he can’t ask anything of Morow. He can’t let him know that he needs someone he can consistently depend on, someone other than Chrollo. He can’t speak his mind, not now, and so all Illumi can ask himself is why he’s acting this way if he’s got nothing to gain from it. He needs to know Hisoka’s motives, and because he can’t uncover them from the start the way he can with others, he’s really not sure what to say. 

Illumi swallows hard, letting out the first complete phrase which comes to mind. 

  
“You care that much?”

  
  
Hisoka smirks, narrowing his eyes.

“I wouldn’t have turned it on anyway.”

Illumi blinks, eyes widening for an instant. He then untucks his hair from within his shirt, flipping the mass of it over one shoulder. 

“What was the point of asking then?”  
  


“I work in mysterious ways.”

  
  
“Your God complex is showing.”

”How unfortunate.”

  
  
“You don’t deserve to have——“  
  


Hisoka rises from his seat and shuts the door behind him. Illumi watches him as he enters the building, shirt coming undone from the waistband of his pants. His line of sight trails down to areas Morow’s button-down fails to cover, the roundest bits of his ass outlined through his tight slacks. 

He enters Nobunaga’s. Illumi looks away.

  
Some air conditioning would’ve been nice right now. And food would be great too. That, however, he’d have to continue to wait around for until his hair stylist thought it appropriate to retrieve. 

Unless Morow kept some in his car. 

Illumi shakes his head. Where was his dignity?

If there was an entire basket of food at the foot of the passenger's seat, Illumi would not reach down to retrieve it. Whether Morow gave him permission or not would not change his ultimate course of action. He did not accept offers from those lower than him, nor would he consume the same goods. 

He’d spent his entire life waiting for a variety of things. Surely he could hold out now. The prospect of sitting tight while lightheaded may have been a nuance at the absolute worst. He’s dealt with this kind of shit in the past——hell, he’s even fainted before a cluster of people. He needed to eat, yeah, sure, but fainting in Hisoka’s car shouldn’t have rendered him in this sort of state. 

Illumi checks the windows of Nobunaga’s Dry Cleaning Supercenter. Hisoka is hunched over the counter, head resting in one palm. 

A line of reason starts burrowing its way into Illumi’s head .

Morow wouldn’t see him do anything. Not at this angle. Illumi could’ve poured gas all over his car and thrown a match on it and Morow wouldn’t have had the slightest inkling that it had been ablaze, at least not until the flames licked the windows of Nobu’s place. 

Alas, at this point in time Illumi needed to start weighing out the alternatives. Either he could pass out without an idea as to when he would arise, or he could attempt to scour for food. Those were his only two options, and this he knew with painstaking certainty; because currently, Illumi perceives the world atop a flimsy carpet, one prone to chucking him out of its hold and down into the abyss of unconsciousness, a wretched unknown the model had the misfortune of frequenting one too many times. 

Illumi swallows hard and turns towards the console. He lifts up the top. 

Inside, there are a couple ziplocks. Most are empty, though one or two hold a few clumps of weed.

“Of course he’s a stoner.”

It explained a lot. All of this mystique was enabled because of the cannabis. It served to spin the elegant, effortless air which circled Hisoka like an endless sandstorm; it strung together a sense of tact so seamless it may as well have been made of silk. 

No one could compose themselves in quite the manner, not without external aids. This sort of grace didn’t come naturally——and Illumi should’ve known.

  
  
Slamming the console shut, he takes to opening the glove compartment. 

And his eyes widen. 

There are six bottles of Black Cherry Vodka. One is a quarter gone, two are empty, and four are untouched. 

Here, he perceives this scene with a growing sense of giddiness. His fingertips are electric, neck craning towards the pile of alcohol. Maroon swirls border the labels. Illumi takes the quarter-empty bottle, cradling it in his hands. Most of the cursive writing has eroded away, so all that reads is “ck ry odk”. 

Illumi spins the cap open, bringing the bottle to his lips. He hopes Morow has the sense to pour the drink into a cup each time he consumes it. The notion of their lips sharing the same surface (if even for a brief moment) makes Illumi cringe.

Steeling himself for the burn, he takes a long swig. Midway through, he thinks to check the calories per serving, but he ultimately disregards it as the liquid pools in his stomach. 

Eventually, he must take a breath. 

With the bottle positioned right above his lips, Illumi’s eyes turn half-lidded, lashes casting long shadows upon his cheeks. His heartbeat pulsates through his jugular, and his ears start to ring. 

Illumi reckons one more sip would do him well. Afterwards, he would set the bottle back in Morow’s glove compartment, and he would’ve never known that any of this had happened.

So when he prepares to take another draft of the strong, bitter-tasting liquor, Illumi hears the car doors unlock. He also hears Morow clear his throat. 

“Having at it, are you?”

  
  
No words come to Illumi’s mind. 

“You know,” Morow gets into the driver’s seat. He gently pries the bottle from Illumi’s grip. “I didn’t take you for the drinking type.”

  
  
“I’m not.”

  
  
“Naturally. You just found my vodka and thought to down it without my permission.”

  
  
He had no right to be even a bit upset. If he kept that much booze in his car, someone was bound to find it. 

  
Morow keys the ignition. A question comes to Illumi’s lips, though he shoots it down before it comes out. 

“That was $24, just so you know.”

  
  
“I only drank half the bottle. So I only owe you half the price.”

  
  
“The other 12 pays for the emotional damage.”

“You shouldn’t be this wounded over me drinking your alcohol.”

Morow turns his blinkers on, preparing to turn. Only one hand sits on the fuzzy steering wheel.

“Wonder how long it’ll take you to get drunk. That’s some strong shit.”

“My tolerance is good.”

“Your cheeks are getting really rosy.”

“I can think clearly.”

Morow shrugs. He slows down, eyes scouring for a place to eat. Dozens of restaurants are lit from the inside. Few customers still sit around tables and dine, though a good deal are closing up.

“You shouldn’t even be eating this late.”

  
  
“Is it because it’s past seven o’clock?”

Illumi’s blush deepens. “You ought to wait at least 2 hours between eating a meal and going to bed. It’s hard on your stomach if you don’t.”

“Well, model boy,” Morow pulls up in front of Razor’s Ice Cream Parlor, continuing on, “some of us really don’t have much room to talk.”

Illumi takes in the bright pink walls and the blue shingled roof. The sign spanning across the front of the parlor is a disgusting green. 

“You’re getting ice cream? For dinner?”  
  


“And you’re welcome to join me.”

  
  
They regard each other in two separate forms, each state miles apart. Illumi can’t fathom what could be going through Hisoka’s head; all he knows is that the way he looks at him makes it hard to think. It is hard to do anything other than sit and stare into his eyes, hard to keep his gaze on those eyes and not let them trail down to his mouth and the piercing nestled in the crevice of his long, long tongue. 

He shouldn’t be surprised the man has been constantly taking initiative this entire night. To highlight this, Morow passes a stick of gum to him, hand now beside Illumi’s elbow.

“Just so you know, I can smell my vodka on your breath. It’s taunting me.” 

Illumi considers rejecting the stick of gum and telling Hisoka he was glad he could smell the booze on his breath, glad he’d be reminded for the remainder of the night that Illumi had disregarded asking him permission because he never thought he’d needed to. 

_I’m better than you,_ Illumi wants to say, _and I should therefore be entitled to everything that’s yours._

He takes the piece from Morow anyway. Not a single word is uttered; and when their fingers brush against each other, Illumi finds himself overcome with sparks and flutters. 

He is dismayed when the contact ceases. 

  
  
  



	4. CRYSTAL SERPENT

Illumi squints at the menu perched on the back wall. He’s been that way for the past few minutes. 

“Do you know what you want yet?”

  
  
“No.”

“We’ve been here for 5 minutes,” Hisoka turns to look at Illumi. “How indecisive can you—-are you having trouble seeing?”

  
  
“No.”

  
  
“Then why, may I ask, are you squinting?”

  
  
Illumi doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes a couple steps towards the menu. It’s still a blur, but he can discern the outline of some of the choices. 

“I can read you the menu.”

  
  
“I said I’m fine.”

  
  
Hisoka huffs. “I’m ordering.”

He steps in front of Illumi. Then he says his order. 

Hisoka’s words turn to a low hum as Illumi’s eyes rove over his body. From his broad shoulders to his tiny waist and down to his fat ass, Illumi didn’t know what had him stealing glances left and right. His build could’ve easily belonged to someone else, and Illumi wouldn’t have given them a second look. He was never one for ogling others, for letting his curiosity get the better of him.

Yet here he was. 

Morow’s tattoos began from his neck and trailed down to his forearms. Illumi wants to unbutton his shirt and examine each one, ask him about the meaning behind the drawings decorating his skin. 

When he steps aside and waits for one of the employees to fill his order, Hisoka beckons Illumi forward. As he steps up to the counter, Illumi clears his throat. 

“Could I get one scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream?”

  
  
“We’re out of that one, sorry.”

  
  
Illumi stares at the man behind the counter. 

“Uh, sir,” the man points to the menu situated behind his head, “it says we’re all out up there.”

Illumi wishes he hadn’t left his jacket back in the Honda, because now he wants to hide within the thick folds of cloth. But here he only wore a top which hit right above his hips. It had swallowed him a time ago, though he had filled in since then.

  
  
“I’ll just get vanilla.”

  
  
“Cup or cone?”

  
  
“Cup.”

The man proceeds to tell Illumi about the total of his order, and when Illumi slides his card, he catches Morow already eating his ice cream. 

The cone in his hand is covered in rainbow sprinkles. It hurts to look at. At the top of the cone, three scoops sit haphazardly upon one another. The bottom one is a cream color dotted with blue, green and yellow bits. The middle is a deep purple, and the top is a disgusting Pepto-Bismol pink. 

“That looks vile.”

  
  
Hisoka stops mid-lick. His long, smooth tongue sits on the top scoop, his tongue piercing more apparent than ever. The red gem in its center winks at Illumi. 

Drawing his tongue back in his mouth, he grins. It’s now Illumi notices his canines are unusually sharp. 

“And what flavors did you get?”

  
  
Illumi falters. He couldn’t find a good reason for getting vanilla, other than the fact that it was probably less calorie dense than most of the other flavors. 

Why did he want mint chocolate chip to begin with? Wasn’t it a blessing to be forced into choosing vanilla due to scarcity?

“Sir?”

Illumi turns to find the man handing him his small cup of ice cream. Morow cranes his neck to see inside the cup. 

“Is that vanilla?”

  
  
“They didn’t have the flavor I wanted.”

“And on top of that, you got it in a cup. What the fuck.”

  
  
“At least my order doesn’t look like something a toddler would eat.”

  
  
“At least my order is worthwhile.”  
  


Illumi narrows his eyes. The music playing from the ceiling sounds metallic, and every so often static shoots through the melodies. The posters plastered along the walls of the parlor advertise amusement parks and pop stars and a variety of candies. Strokes of pastels and gloss finishes depict the mirage of fame and temporary delight as notions which made life’s affairs more bearable. 

_You need an ailment, a distraction. Pick your fight: hedonistic apathy, constant pressure, or needless gluttony. Now, how will you remedy your inadequacy?_

In front of all the bright, sparkling lies, Hisoka stands both before and beside him, a central focus and an accompaniment.

He puts one hand on the small of Illumi’s back. “Let’s find someplace to sit.”

Illumi tenses up. He can feel Morow’s acrylics prick through his top. Only a thin piece of fabric separates their skin, and Illumi wants to remove Hisoka’s hand from his back, tell him that he hates being touched, being held, almost——but everything is just so soft.

This entire excursion is an outcrop on the side of a mountain. Alpine flowers poke out of hedges of rocks. Fluffy clouds float lazily across a too-blue sky, and Illumi sits inside a cottage nestled between it all, watching the atmosphere with great rapture, feeling warm, feeling safe. 

It’s ecstasy. 

When the both of them sit with their orders, Illumi’s heart starts pounding in his chest. His food stares up at him, the light reflecting off its surface resembling a thousand mean-spirited eyes. 

Calorically sparse or not, he couldn’t eat what he’d paid for. He had purchased the ice cream in a moment of heat, a moment where he thought he had no choice. 

In addition, he knows he’d really gotten the ice cream because he was a slave to his impulses—-and now he had to eat it in front of Morow lest he thought something was amiss. 

It shouldn’t have mattered whether he was hungry or not. He had weight to lose. His clothes had become less tight recently; however, they still clung to him in a way they never had before. In the past, he was able to fit into Killua’s t-shirts. 

What happened?

Illumi looks up at Hisoka. He's currently focused on his ice cream. They make eye-contact, though he doesn’t comment on this. 

There’s a slew of factors that had gone into Illumi’s twenty pound weight gain. It hadn’t occurred all at once.

No; it piled on the way leaves did in the fall, the first drifts gradually turning to massive heaps. When he had first met Chrollo, he was just shy of 120. He remembered the way he’d taken Illumi in, perceiving his slight build, describing him as a delicate dove. He had called his figure lithe and statuesque. 

Of course, Illumi had played the comments again and again in his head, savoring the image Chrollo had described to him.

  
  
Chrollo’s perceptions were especially highlighted when they’d fucked; he had run his hands along the xylophone of Illumi’s ribs with a fascination he didn’t want to think about. And he had kissed every bone which poked out of his back with ill fervor.

_I could break you so easily, and I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to have to worry about shattering your glass frame with the wrong breath._

_I hope you’re eating. I really do._

_You get skinnier every time I see you._

Now, he didn’t comment on his weight at all. He didn’t ask if he ate regularly, didn’t ask if he was taking care of himself. 

Illumi’s ice cream was melting. He picks up the spoon and digs a miniscule portion out. 

“So what was up with the vodka?”

Morow’s question rips him from his reverie. 

“I thought we’d closed this matter.”

He waits for Illumi to continue, one red brow raised. The smell of cream and syrup is sickening, and the alcohol pumping through Illumi’s veins warms him beyond comfort. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

  
  
“That’s fine.” Morow takes another lick. 

Like an unwelcome groundhog burrowing its way into Illumi’s mind, he suddenly pictures his dick in Hisoka’s mouth, the cool sensation of his tongue piercing gliding up and down it, the stud getting caught on his folds. He’s imagining Hisoka kissing the beauty marks spotting his groin before making his way up his abdomen and ending at his neck, his canines leaving hickies that layers of makeup couldn’t cover. 

Illumi blinks hard. 

“Anyway, I’ll tell you what I think happened today.”

  
  
Illumi cocks his head to the side. 

“You looked sick as fuck. And you still do. I’m not mad, just for the record.”

  
  
“Why should I care about upsetting you?”

  
  
Hisoka laughs. It’s a melodic falsetto. 

“You’re always laughing.There’s never anything funny when you do, either.”

“Maybe your sense of humor is lacking, Zoldyck.”

“Maybe you can’t read a situation.”

  
  
“You’re the one who’s dug this hole. Some nerve.”

Morow takes to playing with the paper that had circled the cone. The song playing above fades from bubblegum pop to a melodramatic ballad. 

“Look. I’m aware something’s up.”

  
  
“I’m not obliged to tell you what is.”

  
  
An employee shifts from behind the counter. Lids come down upon open vats of ice cream, employees wipe down vacant tables, a few of the lights go off. Razor’s Ice Cream Parlor is teetering on the edge of sleep. 

“You’re right. But I’m your ride.”

  
  
“Why do you care?”

“It doesn’t matter why I care. Just tell me what’s up.”

“And suddenly you’re asking me now?”

  
  
Hisoka's brows crease. “Well, I’m not hungry anymore. I can think well enough to discern when something's odd.”

  
  
Illumi wants to laugh. If only he knew.

“I just had to talk to Bisky.”

  
  
“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

  
  
“Does talking to her really make you feel this bad?”

Illumi nods.

“Hmm. I don’t believe you.”

  
  
“Well, I did ask for something.”

  
  
“And you didn’t get it, I’m guessing?”

  
  
He wants to punch Morow’s teeth out and twist his aquiline nose. In fact, he’s willing to do anything to get him to shut that mouth of his. All that ever comes out of it is trouble, and that’s the last thing Illumi needs. 

The man has the nerve to prance around as a sort of captivating empath, an avant-garde visionary who probably would describe Illumi’s hard-earned aptitude as “promising potential”. He was on a horse so high he probably couldn’t catch sight of the ground below, and Illumi knows he’s only made of lumps of tacky jewelry and subdued radicality. 

Indeed, Illumi’s not willing to intertwine himself between the man’s ambiguous morals. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. Morow doesn’t need to know what happened, and Illumi’s not sure whether he’d rather have his limbs ripped off or tell him about this morning’s meeting. 

Hisoka leans in Illumi’s direction. He can smell the sugar on his breath. It takes every fiber in Illumi’s form not to draw closer to him despite all the malice swirling beneath the surface.

“Why’d she deny you the opportunity?”

“You can ask her.”

“I’m being serious.”

“I am not telling you.”

  
  
Hisoka sits back in his chair. “No need to.”

Illumi swallows hard.

  
  
“It can’t be because of how you look.You’re a pretty boy, believe it or not. ”

  
  
“Modelling isn’t just about appearances. Actually, it’s not—-“

  
  
“Won’t I get a thank you for that?”

  
  
“For what?”

“Forget it.” 

He has no right to get snappy. It’s not like Illumi’s endeavors were any of his business. 

  
“You know, if you want to get promoted, you’re going to need to get Bisky to like you.” 

“I know just how to do that.”

  
  
“I don’t think you do.”

  
  
Hisoka rises from his chair. He squats at the foot of Illumi’s, peering up at him. From this angle, his eyes look like wide pools of honey and gold. 

“I’ll let you in on something.”

  
  
Illumi almost bends to bring his face closer to Morow’s. There’s a draw to the way he crafts his image.

“You don’t know how to socialize. Sorry to break it to you. I’m sure—-no—-I _know_ you’ve got lots of potential as a model. Your demeanor is holding you back, though.”

  
  
“It’s not. You’re wrong.”

  
  
Then Hisoka’s alter ego pulses through again. Now he’s acting like how he got when Illumi had told him he didn’t need a guitar player all those weeks ago. The River Styx running under all the glamour and allure he’s wrapped around himself is poking through. The needles of his motives shine clear and prominent beneath his pale skin, and Illumi hates how he still can’t make out what this man really wants. He’s on the edge of a revelation, but he’s far enough to where he’s still grasping at straws, trying to fit missing pieces in a half-finished puzzle. 

”You’re so fucking…”

  
  
“So fucking what?”

Illumi’s voice is awfully quiet. 

Morow lets out a long sigh. “ Look, I’m just trying to help out.”

“What am I?”

  
  
“Just drop it.”

  
  
“Why?”

A couple employees depart the shop. Most look over their shoulders and at Illumi’s table. Perhaps the wire drawn between Morow and him is so taut that others sensed the potent volts bouncing off both of them. Maybe they knew that, if they got too close, they’d get electrocuted——because even Illumi’s not sure how much more of this man’s presence he could handle. 

When he speaks, his voice is nearly a tremble. Illumi has to grit his teeth to level it out. 

“How could you possibly help me?”

  
  
“I’ll teach you how to get around.”

It’s all faded by now. The remnants of Morow’s undercurrents have flowed right out of him, leaving a shallow shell in its wake.

  
  
Illumi grips the sides of his seat. How he could flip the way he presented himself in a matter of seconds was beyond him. A moment ago his intent had been on the verge of leaking out, of poisoning the surroundings——and this was without any significant prompting. No triggers to be found, no catalysts to generate his behavior. 

But now here he was. Back to reality. A mere stylist with his client. 

Hisoka takes notice of Illumi’s previous action, and he sets both hands on top of Illumi’s. He loosens the model’s grip on the chair, his metal rings settling within the spaces amid Illumi’s fingers. Then he gets up from his spot. 

“I can’t teach you everything tonight, but I can help you out. We can set up a time and place to meet regularly.”

  
  
Illumi wants to scoff. Lessons from Morow, of all people. 

It’s funny though. Because if it weren’t for the jack-fuck faultiness of his internal processing system, he knew he’d lap up this chance before Morow could finish his sentence. 

Illumi had never been taught how to make friends. Not on the level his colleagues had. When he was young, he had once brought up the notion to his parents. Both had looked down upon him, twin sneers on their faces, telling him nothing lasted forever. Making friends wasn’t worth it. 

Besides, they’d reasoned, friends were made to benefit both parties. If mutual benefits were not reaped (and oftentimes they weren’t), then the whole ordeal was a waste of time. 

The radio is promptly shut off. As Morow waits, the pair is submerged into silence. 

“One time. I’m giving you one time.”

  
  
“You’ll need a lot more than that.”

His voice is so easy. So carefree. 

Illumi wants out.

  
  
“Why are you doing this at all?I can’t understand it.”

  
  
“That’s not important. I just know what it’s like, wanting something, trying to get it, failing.”

  
  
Hisoka pauses. 

“You know, it took me a while to snag a job.”

  
  
“I’m not unemployed—-“

“That’s not my point.” Morow tosses the crumpled paper of the cone into a trashcan. Then he looks over his shoulder, adding, “You really can’t read between the lines.”

  
  
His heels click back to the table. He sets two hands atop the chrome table. He looks down into Illumi’s cup. 

“Huh. Your ice cream’s all melted.”

  
  
Illumi sloshes the liquid in his cup, staring down at it in not an all-unhappy manner. The vodka in his stomach has mostly departed now, and once again, Illumi feels empty. Light almost. 

“You gonna eat the rest of that?”

  
  
At this point, words have completely departed from Illumi’s skull. So he simply shakes his head, staring not into Morow’s face, but at the way his mullet holds the shine of the lights shining overhead. 

Morow flashes a grin. “Good. Probably best if you stay quiet now. Your words are starting to slur real bad.”

***

Illumi has held a variation of poses within the last twenty minutes, most of which he couldn’t distinguish between. Pariston, his photographer, clicks and tsks behind the camera, telling Illumi to move his leg, angle his head back, sit up straighter. 

It’s the monotony of the process that has Illumi squirming. He’d never done too well beneath the harsh lights and incessant, piercing scrutiny. 

Today, he’s clad in a pair of ripped shorts and a loose t-shirt. Chains hang from two of the belt loops. He’s wearing white sneakers and ankle high socks. 

“Leave your mouth half open!”

  
  
“Set a lock of hair on the right shoulder!”

“The focus of the outfit is the shorts. You’re not emulating that!”

Again and again came the instructions of Pariston. His voice is reedy and abrasive. In the times Illumi had managed to send himself off into a daydream, he was ripped out before he could fully immerse himself within any particular one. 

The task at hand was demanding enough to where he should’ve paid more attention, though the dullness made that difficult. 

Pariston rises from his spot behind the camera. He snatches his water from the end table beside him and leaves the room. 

By the time those situated around the room begin moving freely, once-hushed conversations growing into casual chatter, Illumi gets out of his stool and walks off to find a bench. He makes sure it’s far from the clusters of people dotted about the room. 

As he searches for the spot he typically retreats to, a hand taps Illumi on the shoulder. He promptly spins to meet the woman holding his next outfit.

His body relaxes. Then he nods. “Thank you.”

  
  
“Not a problem.”

  
  
Illumi peers down at the outfit in his hands. First, he unfolds the shirt, expecting it to fall into a sheet of fabric as he examines it, but no such thing occurs. Instead, the shirt remains suspended in the air, held aloft by Illumi’s now shaking hands. At best, the top extended out ten inches. 

Illumi cringes. He brings the shirt down to his side and finds his bench.

  
  
Sitting down, he takes to unfolding the pants. The waistband has nearly no give to it, and the leather is the type that creases around the thighs. 

This was great. It really was. Illumi may have been wound so tight that his intestines were ready to ooze through his being, the pressure of them pushing against his weak, papery skin. Similarly, the vocal cords in his throat resemble a hoard of tangled rattlesnakes, tails clacking together, their bodies writhing against one another, desperate for help, but somehow aware the flesh enclosing them was holding them back from expressing the extent of their distress, and thus from making their needs apparent. 

Of course, of course, all this was not ideal, but it served him right. It was easy to shroud himself in baggy clothes, to turn a blind eye to the destruction he’d imposed in the past. It was easy to hide, maybe too easy, and that’s exactly what he wished to do. 

But now his physique will all be on display; and the parts that aren’t will be outlined with painstaking precision. 

A sweat develops along Illumi’s brow. 

Sunlight streams in through the window behind his bench. It’s scalding and concentrated, making his raven locks shine a chocolate brown. The warmth is almost welcome, though there’s a cynicism threaded through; Illumi can’t help but grow convinced that every tilt of the planet now angles against him. 

And it’s not that things had worked for him in the past. No; rather, the difference between now and then was that he’d grown lazy. Complacent. 

He had messed up, allowed himself an inch of leeway and instead had taken a couple yards. 

From the far right of the room, Illumi hears the following sentence:

  
  
“Kurapika, go get dressed. Here’s your outfit.”

Illumi raises his head to look for him. He had an idea of who he was, but he just wanted to make sure he knew. 

Though he’d never admit it, Illumi had memorized the entire list of models employed at Firestarter. He knew each of their builds, the branches they worked in, and whether they were any good. 

Kurapika had to be the blond boy he’d seen last week. He’d never heard that name uttered by anyone on the premises. He had yet to see it on the register. This was probably his first week. All he proved to Illumi was another adversary he’d have to keep tabs on, watching him with rapture and pointed focus. 

Illumi checks his watch. He rises from his seat and begins his way towards the dressing rooms. The walk is short and done with subtlety. 

Once inside, he starts stripping. The shorts come off first, the pair soon discarded by the foot of the curtain.

  
  
Slipping the pants on is another ordeal. He must jerk them up the length of his legs, the leather snug and suffocating. As expected, the waistband digs into his skin. He lifts up his top to observe if any of his fat spills over the sides. 

Then he sighs and pulls the shirt over his head. Before he puts on the crop top, he turns to the side. His eyes travel up and down the length of his body. They stop at his midriff. He raises one hand to feel along the side of his ribs, then his pelvic bones, then across the webbed bones splaying out from his sternum. During the first round, he can’t feel his bones, not unless he presses into his skin. 

He faces the mirror head on now. He proceeds to hold his breath and suck his stomach in, savoring the way every bone in his ribs is now visible, the slit of his navel a sinister needle pointing down to the shards of his hip bones. 

Illumi holds this position for as long as possible, taking in all the angles of his body. He could be here if he lost ten pounds. Or twenty. Or thirty.

  
  
The time comes where he must exhale. And so he picks the crop top off the floor and works his body into it. It’s a tight bandage of a thing, and, as expected, it ends right below his pecs. 

He leaves the dressing room without giving himself the chance to examine his appearance again. And though Illumi may saunter out with his chin up and shoulders back, all he wants is to shield himself beneath the expanse of his hair; he wants to lose himself within the insubstantial protection it could provide him. If only he could wrap it around his torso and not have anyone question the gesture, all would be peachy. 

Illumi’s boots are quiet against the dark tile. He keeps his gaze set straight ahead, taking in everything and looking at no one in particular. 

Alas, the comments come soon enough. Illumi steels his shoulders and resists clenching his fists. 

“Hey, someone’s looking sexy!”

  
  
Others turn their heads. “You look great, Fox!”

Illumi regards those that compliment him with a short glance. He doesn’t utter a thanks, nor does he offer a nod. 

A short, thick quietude develops. Those on the set were waiting for some kind of response, breaths silently held. Illumi considers screaming at them, saying not to look at him, telling them to forget this image, because he knows all that comes out of their mouths are lies. 

He’s ready to rip their eyes out and then his own. 

It’s not long before Pariston comes back on the set. And then Illumi is back to striking a variety of poses, the air hitting his stomach a relentless tornado, the instructions of the photographer seeming like a series of irrefutable commands. 

Pariston is his puppet master, and Illumi is his slave. To Pariston, he is just an object, a hunk of flesh purposed for molding to the wills of those around him. He is nothing, and even if he ever could mean something, he would need to do his job perfectly, devoid of complaint and folly.

After working at Firestarter for a year and a half, Illumi knew the likelihood of that. 

The click of the camera continues with the dogged persistence of a mosquito buzzing in one’s ear. When it suddenly comes to a halt, Illumi’s attention is piqued. Behind the camera, Pariston leans back and pinches the bridge of his nose. He sighs. 

“You’re doing it all wrong, my God.”

  
  
The comment is soft, although Illumi is close enough to hear it. And never has his urge to draw a razor down each wrist been so strong. 

He meets the photographer’s eyes. He can tell people around the room observe the scene with poorly veiled interest. Conversations have died down to nearly nothing, and an apology surfaces to Illumi’s lips. For a moment, he thinks it to be a solution to his shortcomings; but, he has an image to maintain, especially around all these people.

Therefore, Illumi takes to doing what he does best——-sitting pretty and staying quiet.

***

When Illumi ascends the steps of his apartment complex, he doesn’t wait to open the mail once inside. No; what he does is he sets the stacks of magazines and bills on the floor. He focuses on the report card at the bottom of the stack. It sits in the palm of one hand, the other one already breaking the seal up top. 

The top of the yellow envelope rips off with ease. Illumi reaches inside and draws out the paper. The following is written across the top:

  
  
_Progress Report of Killua Zoldyck_

Illumi’s eyes flit down to the series of letters beside each subject. First, math, then english, then science, and then the rest continued on down, though at that point it didn’t matter. Illumi slips the paper back into the envelope, collects the heaps of mail by the door, and enters his apartment. 

When he closes the door behind him, he finds Killua on the couch, reading what looked like a manga. He refuses to greet his brother; instead, he slinks up behind him and leans over the couch, long locks falling over the cushions. 

“What is this?”

  
  
Killua looks up. “Oh, hi.”

  
  
“Answer my question.”

  
  
“You already know what that is.”

  
  
“You’re failing half your classes.”

  
  
“I don’t care.”

  
  
“I’m going to make you.”

  
  
Killua narrows his eyes, focusing back on his manga. 

In turn, Illumi snatches the book out of his hands, walks around the couch, and sits besides Killua. 

“Can you go on the chair? I like my space.”

  
  
Illumi’s muscles tense up. “This is important.”

  
  
“I don’t like you being close to me.”

  
  
“I’m your brother.”

  
  
Illumi searches for a spark of warmth in Killua’s eyes, but he finds nothing. The word please nearly falls out of his mouth, more so out of desperation than politeness. 

Killua sits up and scoots towards the far end of the sofa. 

“You can talk now. I guess.”

  
  
“I can talk whenever I want. I’m your——“

  
  
“I don’t care. Blood only goes so far.”

  
  
Oh, and so did friendships. Gon could kiss Killua’s feet and bend over backwards for him, breathe the purpose of fulfilling his desires, of his wishes.

Still, he wouldn’t come close to Illumi.

  
  
Killua would never understand just what Illumi had undergone to haul them both off to Seattle. He knew nothing of the long nights Illumi spent at his parents’ throats, the sound of his retorts muffled against the floor of Killua’s bedroom up above. He was lucky he wasn’t Kalluto or Milluki or Alluka. He had been granted the chance to go off with Illumi, and while Illumi loved his parents from one end of the Earth to the other, raising kids wasn’t for them. Raising Killua wasn’t for them. 

“Your views on family are irrelevant. Tell me why you’re failing so many subjects.”

  
  
“My views are irrelevant?”

  
  
“Stop avoiding the question.”

  
  
Killua sneers, his face now morphed into a composition of harsh angles and deep shadows. His voice is a growl. 

“Maybe it’s because you never pay attention to me. Maybe it’s because all I am to you is just something to prove to Mom and Dad. I don’t even know what you’re trying to do.”

  
  
“You’re not going to graduate high school this way. Grades count now. This isn’t middle school.”

  
  
Killua dives for his report card, but Illumi is on his feet before he can get a hold of it. 

“I’m literally telling you what’s wrong! Do you not understand English or something?”

  
  
“You’re failing because you’re sad you’re not getting attention? Killua, please.”

  
  
Now is when Killua’s chest starts heaving. The action is subtle enough to go unnoticed, though Illumi is too acquainted with the way the cloth of his t-shirt rides up and down his torso, sliding with the grace of a killer dragging a knife along the victim’s throat. 

The color in his cheeks also rises to a raging flame, an inferno capable of incinerating bone and flesh and sinew.

  
  
“Why did you ask me about my grades? You’re never happy with my answers.”

“I was hoping you’d be a bit more coherent. I like to think I’ve taught you to control your emotions.”

  
  
“You haven’t taught me anything at all! Whenever you come back from work and make dinner, you just lock yourself in your room! You don’t speak to me, and I don’t even know if you have friends! If you’re not home, you’re always at Chrollo’s or the gym. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know where to look. ”

  
  
“Don’t say those things. It’s rude.”

  
  
“We don’t even eat dinner together anymore! You never come to my robotics competitions the way you did before! I don’t know what happened. I know you were never into, like, being all nice and supportive but you never got like this. Never.”

  
  
Illumi lets out a long sigh. 

Had there been a way to confide with him about his work load and the degree of fatigue imposing over him, he would. By God, if there was some sort of way to detail the long days spent contorting his body to the will of designers and photographers alike, Illumi would without a doubt. 

He did his job all without protesting, and never had he asked for anything of those around him. Illumi provided for himself, he provided for Killua, he kept himself together and held himself accountable. He didn’t ask for things he didn’t deserve, nor did he ask for things he already had but was too blind to see. 

“I’ve been the same since the beginning of the move.”  
  


“You know that’s a lie.”

Tears prick at the corners of Killua’s eyes. The belt wound around Illumi’s chest tightens to where he can hardly breathe.  
  


“What does this have to do with your grades at all? Can you not tell that I care for you by trying to find the source of your problems? If you need a tutor I’m willing to spend money. As much as it takes for you to succeed.”

  
  
“And I don’t want you to spend money. I just want you to pay attention to me.”

  
  
“I do.”

Killua smiles. It’s of the wobbly sort, the kind you flash at someone when trying to let them know their advances were but a scratch on everlasting armor. The features surrounding the smile usually betrayed its snide nature, yet that somehow added to the weight the expression held. It added a dimension of care for the perpetrator whilst telling them to rot in hell.

  
  
“I also don’t want you to keep lying. I know we don’t have a lot of money, so don’t pretend that can be a redeeming quality for your—”

  
  
“For my what?” Illumi asks.

  
  
“Your neglect. That’s what. When’s the last time we had a proper talk that didn’t end like this?!”

  
  
“I’m not the one who instigates aggression.”

  
  
Killua grabs at the vase on the sofa table. He hurls it at Illumi, its long blue form narrowly missing his head as it cartwheels through the air. The sound of it shattering against the wall sends Illumi into a shrill frenzy, and then Killua’s pinned against the couch. Illumi’s hands are around his brother’s wrists. 

No words come to mind. 

Illumi can smell the sweat on Killua. It’s stinging and potent; it reminds him of how he got prior to his first few shoots. While Killua is painfully receptive of his current position, he doesn’t break eye contact with Illumi, not when his phone goes off or when he hears a knock at the door. Barely any time passes before all is still again. 

Here, Killua’s a cheetah cornered by a pack of hyenas, and his teeth remain bared. He could run, forget the impending consequences of his actions, relinquish responsibility. 

Alas, the notion of fighting back has never left this mind——not even when the acquisitions of his opponent’s desires were inevitable, a truth he’d need to swallow along with his defiance, because staunch stubbornness or otherwise, Illumi got what he wanted when he wanted. 

And he would not be dominated by a 14 year old. 

  
“I thought you were better than this. I didn’t know you’d turn out to be an uncontrollable brute like Alluka.”

  
  
A tear rolls down Killua’s cheek. 

“That’s all I want. To go back to her.”

  
“It’s ridiculous that’s what you want. I’m right here, if you have not taken note of this. It is clear you don’t appreciate what I do for you. Do you not remember what I went through to get us here?”

  
  
“And if you’re so noble, why’d you only take me?”

  
  
“Why did you come along?”

Killua scoffs. “Biggest mistake I’ve ever made.” 

Illumi opens his mouth, and nothing comes out. It stays ajar, the words he wants to relay to Killua sticking to the sides of his throat like viscous honey. As time passes, it becomes harder to comprehend the straight-shot lines of this matter, and the longer his words linger inside the crevices of his mind, the more Illumi finds himself yearning for a way to drill the truth into Killua’s mind, disarming him of his delusions and starry fantasies. 

Except, that’s not what’ll happen. Illumi’s never able to fully convey all he wants. He always fell short, cutting his thoughts off at a point where he considered them appropriate——and this tended to occur much earlier than he expected. So when he speaks, it’s a curt, lackluster sort of sentence, the kind someone articulated when they had lost all else. What comes out of his mouth is a choke.  
  


“I will not tolerate this. And I will see to it that you become a straight A student.”

What descends upon Killua can only be described as smugness. He’s a pretentious wretch of a boy, thinking he’s got everything under control, thinking what Illumi’s lecturing him on doesn’t mean much. Killua smiles once more, and it ends up looking like a grimace.

  
  
And then he purses his lips before spitting into Illumi’s face.

The sensation is warm and wet. His saliva travels down Illumi’s cheek in a clear runnel. 

Illumi freezes.

He’s encased in a vat of ice,one where he can comprehend the scene before him with compromised autonomy, limited to a set of ineffectual motions. He can try to hack through the ice and into the heart of his brother, but his pickaxe is dull, so his efforts mean nothing.

As they typically do.

Therefore, Illumi merely lets go of Killua, and his posture becomes infinitely more relaxed. He proceeds to rise from the couch and glare down at him. 

“You’re better than this.”  
  


He doesn’t want to dwell on how weak his voice sounds. It’s a piece of burlap on the verge of tearing in half granted the wrong movement, the absentminded shifting of an arm or a leg.

“You deserve worse than that. I’d kill you if I could.”

  
  
“And you want more of my attention?”

  
  
“I was willing to take what I could get. But I know you’d never give me the time of day.”

  
  
“Change the way you act and maybe I will.”

Turning away, Illumi shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. He likes to think that deep down, there had to be something that held Killua close to him, despite how thin the string may have been. 

Back in Keizer, they’d been inseparable. Kikyo and Silva hated it; and even when they would tell the two to leave one another be, either Killua would find Illumi doing his homework, or Illumi would find Killua on the verge of a massive mess——in which he’d then educate him to steer clear of those troubles. And shortly afterwards, they’d get involved in some kind of engagement. 

Even as a baby, Illumi was always the sole person who could calm Killua down when he cried. He’d cradled him more often than Kikyo ever did. It was a rarity to see her feed him or change him or give him any sort of care. No; it had always been Illumi, Illumi, Illumi. 

Now, there’s a different person sitting on the sofa, a person he didn’t wish to know——and see, he wants to wonder what he’s done wrong, but he truly knows there’s nothing he’s fucked up on his part. 

A knock sounds at the door. It’s more urgent than the first time, though Illumi stays rooted in his spot. If their concerns were important, they would’ve found a different way to contact him.

The bright fluorescents in their apartment are a giveaway, sure, though beyond this, they’re an array of lasers dousing the room in white, sterile light, light which comes to life as the sun dips below the horizon, the comfy constituents of Illumi’s loft thus turning dreary and impersonal. It’s a lot like an operation room. 

Illumi prepares to leave for his bedroom when the door unlocks. Chrollo walks in with a smooth amble. 

“Long time no see.”  
  


“You’re not welcome.”

  
  
“Well, if that isn’t one way to greet me.”

Tonight, he’s clad in a red windbreaker and ripped jeans. His Oxford’s provide a stark contrast to his casual wear, a statement claiming that he had money, he just didn’t bother to flaunt it. He could afford to fulfill every whim, and that’s exactly what he did. 

“Why are you here?”  
  


Chrollo looks Illumi up and down. “What’s this?”

  
  
He brings a hand up to Illumi’s cheek. When the pad of his thumb makes contact with the streak of spit, he frowns.

“Were you crying?”

  
  
“It’s my spit.”

  
  
Chrollo turns to see Killua perched atop the couch. He’s biting back a laugh, his two front teeth digging into his lower lip.

“A quarrel. Why am I not surprised?”

  
  
Illumi takes Chrollo’s hand and lowers it to his side. 

“I told you to get out.”

  
  
“After the other night?” Chrollo wraps an arm around Illumi’s waist and brings him closer. “You’re going to want me to stay, trust me.”

  
  
“Don’t do this in front of Killua.”

  
  
Chrollo gives Killua a short glance. He gives Chrollo a shrug, and somehow his manga is back in his lap. 

“He’s in high school. He can handle this. And worry not; I won’t grope you or anything.”

  
  
“If I don’t want you touching me, then don’t do it at all.”

  
  
“You’re not resisting. You have no room to speak, anyway.”

  
  
They stare into one another’s faces in this moment. Illumi takes in Chrollo’s angular facial structure, first starting from his prominent cheekbones before traveling down to the point of his chin. Under his windbreaker, he’s wearing a turtleneck, though it fails to hide the plum hickies trailing down his neck. 

Illumi wiggles out of Chrollo’s hold. 

“Hey, Illu, I wanted to talk about the other night.”

  
  
“Not here.”

  
  
Chrollo laughs. 

“Killua, go to your room.”

  
  
Killua remains in his spot, the manga in his lap abandoned. 

“Let him watch. I’ll be brief.”

  
  
“Chrollo——“

  
  
“So. Like I said. You’re just so tense. It’s traveled into our sex life.”

  
  
He says this as if it’s a topic to be discussed over tea. Something that was casually brought up, hardly more than a perplexing annoyance to busy one’s mind with. 

But Illumi knew how to pry beneath his words. He could see the edge glinting below his facade. He came here for a reason, and it was planned. 

It had to be. 

Chrollo was a man of both tact and cunning. Oddly enough, he was better at gleaning emotions from a situation than reading those lengthy philosophical passages he absorbed in his downtime. 

He takes a step towards Illumi. 

  
“You’re desperate. What is it you want?”

  
  
His mouth curls at one end like the tail of a serpent. This serpent, it’s coiled up now, but its head remains poised off the ground, long neck swaying back and forth, fangs shining with greed for its next catch. 

“Do you want to control me? To dominate me?”

  
  
“You’re talking nonsense.”

  
  
“I already know the answer to that question. And by the way, you’ll never control me. Maybe I’ll let you beat me and drive your dick——-“

  
  
“ _Stop_ _!_ ”

“Ah. I’m being a bit explicit, aren’t I?”

  
  
“Get out of my fucking house.”

  
  
Illumi hasn’t noticed the way Chrollo’s edged towards him throughout their conversation, and now he’s inches away from Illumi once again. 

“I’ve brought a pamphlet. It’s on abuse.”

“This is appalling.”

  
  
“Maybe to you. But I’m a victim trying to educate my abuser. You do realize most abusers aren’t even aware what they’re doing is abuse, right?”

  
  
He glances at Killua.

“Is your brother treating you bad?”

  
  
“What do you...what?”  
  


“Well, he’s treating me like shit too. I can relate to you, even if you won’t readily admit what he’s doing.”

  
  
Killua’s brows are drawn so close it looks like he’s got a fraying rope sitting right over his eyes. Illumi has to grasp at the fabric within his jacket pockets to steady himself——-because along with the creases that’ve formed in Killua’s forehead, his mouth is agape——-and he's never at a loss for words.

  
  
“If you need a place, here’s my number.”

  
  
He pulls a paper from his pants pocket before planting it in Killua’s palm. The number has been written beforehand, the ink appearing to have dried long ago. 

“Educating yourself is the best way to change.”

  
  
“I don’t abuse you. You talk such nonsense.”

  
  
Were the times he’d come to Chrollo’s house in the middle of the night just so he didn’t feel alone considered abusive? Or did he happen to forget about the days where Illumi had taken off just to care for Chrollo because the physical demand of stripping left him immobile? 

Abuse. Illumi couldn’t believe it.  
  


Chrollo almost smiles again. 

  
“Oh, wait. I nearly forgot the most important part.”

  
  
He’s digging in the pocket of his windbreaker now, and what he pulls out stops Illumi’s heart. 

“I liked you better when you were a little more ditzy. A little more buzzed.”

He shoves the ziploc bag into Illumi’s chest. 

“You had a charm to you. This was what gave you appeal. Shame you stopped using.” 

Chrollo turns away, and he doesn’t look behind him. 

“Get your head back in the clouds, will you?”

  
  
Illumi’s eyes are set on the bag in his hands, the white powdery substance within holding the prowess of hope and promise. These notions have the strength of cobwebs, although cobwebs are intricate and delicate and too beautiful to disregard. 

“Do it for me. And do it for your brother, too.”

  
  
Illumi’s eyes go wide. He snaps his head to the side, and Killua’s already off the couch and making his way down the hall. He can hear the door close from the distant end of the apartment, and for a frame, he listens closely for any sign of life, but no sounds are emitted. 

However, Killua’s sobs come soon enough, and he doesn’t try stifling them. 


	5. BLACK CHERRY VODKA

“He’s coming out soon, it looks like.”

  
  
“I know.”

“Don’t be a snark.”

  
  
Hisoka looks over at Machi. She tends to her gun with the care reminiscent of a mother cradling her newborn child. She’s been shining the barrel for the past twenty minutes.

“Better put that away soon.”

  
  
“I know what I’m doing.”

“Open up my glove compartment.”

  
  
“Not a good time to get drunk.”

  
  
“Please.” Hisoka reaches over to open the compartment. Machi sets her gun against his temple.

“Oh, am I supposed to be scared?”

The coolness of the gun against his skin soothes him. He doesn’t bother hiding how his shoulders loosen up at the touch of it, nor does he attempt to mask the openness of his posture. The gun feels the same way ice does when set upon one’s forehead on a sweltering summer afternoon. Unfortunately, the inside of Hisoka’s car got warm way too quick for his liking, and now was no exception; indeed, the chill sensation of the muzzle was welcome, and so were its wielder's turbulent threats. 

  
  
“I’ll kill you one of these days. You just wait.”

  
  
“Hopefully when you get around to it I won’t have any reason to live anyway.”

  
  
Hisoka unscrews the cap of his vodka. He takes a long swig.

“What is your purpose?”

  
  
He didn’t have one. And he didn’t understand why he needed to. 

What was it with people scavenging the ends of the Earth in search of anything to make them feel something? Why did they need a purpose, a conviction to assure them that their existence held weight?

  
  
Many were quick to label Hisoka a hedonist, or a narcissist, or an egotistical maniac——but was this act not of the same caliber? Was this collective desperation not an egocentric pursuit in itself?

“My purpose varies. Whatever interests me, I go after.”

  
  
“But there’s nothing concrete.”

  
  
“Where’s the fun in that?”

Machi shakes her head. “Your problem is that you’re fickle. And it’s gonna fuck you over soon enough.”

“It already has.”

“Not enough, clearly.”

She lowers her gun. “One day, one day you’ll learn enough to change the way you do shit.”

“I really don’t understand your insistence on altering how I do things.”

Machi gives him a long look. She didn’t need to say why.

Perhaps this was because her features tended to relay her motives with horrible transparency. Hisoka almost felt bad for her.

  
  
It wasn't difficult to discern what she was thinking. Over time, she had improved when it came to hiding what she thought, but only to a certain extent. It seemed there would always be a series of cracks in her porcelain mask. The mask would be too big for her face, and so it’d constantly slip, revealing even greater chunks of vulnerability, though this would only occur when she got tired of patching up smaller incessant blunders, blunders Hisoka knew she could hardly help.

  
  
Machi slips her gun in the belt of her pants. She lowers her shirt over it and wiggles into a large coat. Hisoka glances at the boy exiting the building in his rear view, then at Machi.

“You’re prepared?”

She nods. Her lips are drawn tight.  
  


They exit the car, and for the first few moments, neither of them speak. When they’re about 10 yards away from the blond boy’s car, Hisoka sparks a dialogue between them. 

“Do you want to head over to River Edge or The Scorpion’s Tail?”

  
  
“Dunno. River has cheaper food, but The Scorpion has better drinks.”

Hisoka is tempted to fall into the ebb and flow of an actual conversation. He wants to ride the wave of cozy commonality and forget what they're getting ready to do for a couple beats. He was too well-acquainted with the temptations their classic act brought on. Hisoka had hoped participating in it would grow easier with time, that he would be able to distance himself from the opportunities they actually spoke of, but it seemed some things just remained challenging. 

.  
  
Hisoka looks away from Machi and finds Kurapika’s gaze. He makes his way over quicker, cutting the cadence of their conversation in favor for the blond boy’s attention. 

“What’re you up to, pray tell?”

  
Kurapika is now about a yard away from the both of them, and he’s holding the keys to his car. A box of pizza leans against the side of one hip, his arm extending over the length of it, delicate fingers curling beneath the grease-stained bottom. 

In addition to his disheveled appearance, he’s got heavy eyebags, and his skin is sallow. 

“I’ve had a long day.”

“Your hair still looks good.” Hisoka throws a wink his way. 

Kurapika smiles. “And why are you here so late?”

“Me and Machi are on an excursion of sorts.”

  
  
Hisoka puts an arm around Machi and pulls her close to him. Her shoulders steel up, but it’s not enough for Kurapika to notice, not under her massive jacket. 

“I see.”

  
  
“We were putting off going to one of the bars around the area. But now that you’re here, would you care to join us?” He turns to Machi again. “We didn’t need to pick up food anyway, not if we’re heading out to a bar.”

“Guess not.”

  
  
Hisoka shoots Kurapika a sheepish smirk . “She’s a bit of a downer. I apologize. But still, would you care to——“

“I’m sorry, I’m really quite tired.”

  
  
The frown on Kurapika’s face reminds Hisoka of the way Illumi got when he was getting ready to respond to one of his taunts. First, he’d squint, then open his mouth, and furrow his brows—-after all this, he’d seal his lips again, recalculating and mulling over what he was getting ready to say. The knee-jerk response Hisoka had hoped for would disappear along with the passion Illumi worked so hard to veil—-and veil he successfully did.

Here, Kurapika looks as if he wants to say more than he lets on, and so Hisoka and Machi are left on a dangling, decrepit bridge, torn between closing the distance themselves or letting their traveler do it for them. 

In the air separating the two parties, something akin to a buzz generates between them. Hisoka can bet Kurapika’s keeping a thousand words to himself, opting for the decision to remain silent. His smile has been wiped clean off his lips, despite the pair not saying another word. 

  
He’s a scientist sitting before a bomb, cutting the last cord in the hopes of dismantling it. Precarious instinct combined with a dash of luck, Kurapika Kurta has figured them all out, somehow, some way. 

That’s when Machi pounces on him. Kurapika’s pizza flies into the air, the cheesy disc making rapid, nimble rotations before falling face down onto the gravel. 

To prevent him from letting out a scream, Machi sticks her hand in Kurapika’s mouth. Then she ties his wrists behind his back. 

“The tape, the ta——“  
  


Machi grimaces as Kurapika bites down on her hand. 

“You little fucker!”

  
  
Kurapika lunges to the right, away from Hisoka. Machi tackles him to the ground, wrapping one arm around his neck in a wobbly chokehold. The both of them writhe in a pretzel of limbs, struggling against combatting fibers of sinew. There’s a lot more fight in the boy’s lithe body than Hisoka thought. 

Then again, he hadn’t expected Machi to beat his ass all those years ago when they had first met and he had called her a “fragile little thing”. Indeed, he found that the smaller his opponent, the tougher they were to fight. Small bodies could slip out of your grip in an instant——and along with this, they could compact all the force of their being into one strike. 

Machi drives her knee into the small of Kurapika’s back. She removes her hand from his mouth, and, grabbing a fistful of his hair, begins to repeatedly slam his face into the gravel. 

Hisoka is on his knees before she can call out his name once more. The sound of Kurapika’s skull crashing against an equally hard surface is similar to that of wood splintering in the midst of a strong wind. It’s a sobering sound, one which told him to get a move on, to get a hold of the situation prior to the possibility of it fucking him over. 

Hisoka reaches into his purse and draws out the duct tape. He also removes a folded trash bag, though he sets that aside for now. 

Taking Kurapika by his bloodied chin, he tapes the boy’s mouth shut, having the thick gray strip extend past the end of one cheek and into the thicket of his hair. 

At this point, he’s beginning to slump over. The gash wounds marking his face spill blood at a steady pace. Streams of it drip off his chin and onto his white Grateful Dead t-shirt. His baggy jeans are marked with poorly written lyrics . His converse are black, and there are doodles etched in the white toe of each shoe. 

“He’s so young.”

Hisoka responds by opening up the trash bag and dragging it through the air until it opens up. The sound of the bag makes a harsh whipping sound. He takes Kurapika by the scruff of his shirt and shoves him inside. 

“Didn’t know you had a soft spot for kids like him.”

  
  
“I just….Doing it to people like him doesn’t seem right.”

  
  
Hauling the boy over one shoulder, Hisoka hurries back over to his Honda. He does it with a modest, purposeful speed. Machi trails behind him. 

“You’ve been doing this for how many years now?”

  
  
“That doesn’t change a thing.”

  
  
Hisoka unlocks the door to his car and tosses Kurapika in the backseat. 

“He’s been on the market for a little bit. We’re just here to do our part.”

Machi gets into the passenger side of the vehicle and buckles up. 

Neither of them say a word for the next forty minutes. Hisoka’s content to sit in the void for only so long. Eventually he turns on the radio and puts one of his playlists on . He sets the volume to 20. Tonight is not the kind of night which lends itself to reckless joviality. 

The thought of this notion brings Illumi to the center of Hisoka’s mind. It had only been two weeks since they’d gone out to Razor’s Parlor together. He had a strange charm to him, Illumi did. Hisoka knew there was more to it than his ethereal appearance. He acted like he had the right to sneer at everyone who so much as muttered a word his way——and yet he was painstakingly clueless about so many things. 

He had a tendency to stare into some invisible void, his dark eyes glittering with sentiments Hisoka could only hope to untangle. He seemed sophisticated and tailored with class, all his movements fluid and limber——yet when he opened his mouth, this entire facade was dismantled, breaking the way a toddler eats a chocolate chip cookie, all the crumbs and rogue chips segmented into equally fine and fucked up pieces.

  
  
So what Hisoka wants to do is open up his model the way a surgeon opens up their patient. He wishes to examine all the crannies of Illumi’s mind, ambling down his curvy ribbons of reason. 

This meant he had to get incredibly close. And even if he could manage to do that, he couldn’t sustain it. Not really. 

He’d hate for Illumi to get dragged under and through to his Atlantis of grimy alleyways and broken bottles of every kind of alcohol he could get his hands on.

  
  
He never disposed of the shards. 

Every single time he’d succumbed to finishing a bottle in a single night, he’d break it against a wall. It became routine. Tradition. By the time he’d polished off the contents within, it hardly mattered what he did afterwards. 

The traffic lights in front of the pair turn green. Pushing down on the gas pedal, Hisoka clears his throat. 

“Are you ready for this next sell?”

  
  
Machi sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. “I’m needing the money. That’s all I’m looking forward to.”

“Doesn’t sound like that’s anything you’re really wanting to participate in.”

“Am I supposed to want to do this shit?”

  
  
“Contrary to your beliefs, not all of us enjoy this either. I’d rather do other shit to make money——“

“Hisoka, you’d rather murder people.Don’t act like that’s any better.”

“Oh, I mentioned my...tendencies, didn’t I?”

Machi huffs. “You’re an idiot.”

“I prefer the term charming.”

“My gun is loaded.”

“You know you need me.”

Machi tucks a strand of hair behind one ear. “Maybe for now.”

“Good thing you’re willing to admit it.”

  
  
“Watch your words.”

  
  
Hisoka laughs.

“I think we need to start getting a little more careful as it is. The Phantom Troupe’s gotten quite strong. A bit intimidating, maybe.”

  
  
Machi’s brows draw low. “What’re you on? Have you forgotten who we are?”

  
  
“We fought our way to the top, and you know exactly what’s kept us there.”

  
  
Hisoka doesn’t bother looking over at Machi. Bringing up the Phantom Troupe could only go a number of ways, and none of them were favorable. He’s known Machi for long enough that he doesn’t need to check what expression she’s wearing. 

  
“All I’m saying is that the money’ll do us all some good.” 

  
“You’re not usually one to state the obvious.”

  
  
“Maybe you’ve just ignored every time I have in the past.”

  
  
“What’s the deal with you?”

  
  
“Figure it out yourself. Let’s make this into a game” 

“If I was motivated enough to figure you out, I would. You’re lucky I’m the only one willing to put up with you.”

  
  
“Who says you’re the only one?”

“Your exes don’t count.”

Hisoka turns onto Hawthorne Boulevard, slowing down considerably. He passes a series of shops and restaurants, all of which are crummy and second-rate. This part of Seattle wasn’t frequented by pretentious college kids, and for this Hisoka was dismayed. Generating retorts angled their way busied his mind in the best manner possible. 

When they pull into the parking lot of Nobunaga’s Dry Cleaning Supercenter, Hisoka removes the key from his ignition and peers over his shoulder. 

“Hope he’s not concussed. We can’t afford to have damaged cargo.”

“He can’t be that hurt.”

  
  
Hisoka shrugs and gets out of the car. Again, Machi follows suit. She nudges Kurapika’s head further into the trash bag. 

“You’re being so gentle. It’s touching.”

  
  
“Shut the fuck up.” Machi snaps.

Hisoka laughs and steps up onto the sidewalk. Then he unlocks the door to Nobu’s place. 

“Last piece is secured. You should be happy.”

  
  
If it weren’t for the fact that she had a body in a bag over her shoulder, they’d stare at one another for longer. Hisoka can see something stirring in her mind, but he needs more time to discern whatever the hell this is. It requires a dissection. He wants to applaud Machi for her sudden penchant towards stoicism. 

He hadn’t seen it coming. 

He’s glad they’re going in to meet with the others, because that would give him time. 

Now he doesn’t know why she’s still constantly trying to stay so cold. If she really knew how to hide what mattered (as she had proven now), there truly lay no need for it. And apart from all the biting potential ice held, there was menace in the heat as well.

***

In the back den of Nobu’s place, the Vipers are getting wasted.

Hisoka’s beside Machi, and both of them sit across from Feitan, Shalnark, and, of course, Nobunaga.

The table between the two parties is littered with empty glasses. Some are still half-full, and the status of Hisoka’s cup is ever-changing. At times it’s filled to the brim, but it only remains that way for a brief period before it’s all downed. He’s in a cycle of drinking and refilling his glass, and Hisoka’s glad his friends are distracted by the card game they’re playing. 

He didn’t have to look into their faces to discern what each of them were thinking. That was the thing about Hisoka——with most people, he could take a single glance at their face and (given that he knew them relatively well) be able to make out just what each person was thinking. It proved a useful skill, although his purposes for it were rarely altruistic. 

Right now, he’s staring at Nobunaga. The man has been carrying the same soft scowl for the entire duration of their gathering. His crooked nose pointed down to his pressed lips, the line they made a skeletal wire fence hardly holding in his musings. 

He grunts, sets his last card down, and fixes his ponytail. 

“Uno.”

  
Hisoka sighs, taking the entire pile of cards. He shuffles them vigorously, his acrylics scratching against each individual laminate surface. 

“You pay off this month’s rent?”

  
  
“I’ve been threatened with eviction twice now.”

  
  
“No need to worry.”

  
  
Nobu nods. “ It’s still worrying me though. I really like this place, and, well, even if I do pay off the rent with the money from the next auction, who’s to say they won’t take the place away from me?”

  
  
Feitan raises a brow at Nobu. “If they have your money, they’ll be happy. That is really what they need. If they want to evict you for a late payment, your landlord would be fucking themselves over. Without a steady income from someone——“

  
  
“They’ll have less money to manage the building themselves. And it’ll have to go on sale again. And this place is neat, but it’s definitely not going to sell.”

  
  
Shalnark flashes a toothy grin. In turn, Hisoka downs the rest of his glass. He’s guessing this is his fifth one. 

“No reason to beam, Shal.”

“No reason not to!”

“There’s plenty reason not to. It’s tacky, for one.”  
  


Shalnark’s expression falls from his lips. However, the ghost of it lingers. He makes out Hisoka’s features then, cocking his head to the side and leaning forward. 

  
Instead of waiting for a verbal response, Hisoka gets up and makes his way towards a room in the back of the dry cleaning shop. Once inside, he roams over the alcohol rack near the door. Crouching, he reaches for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s . He runs his fingers atop its long, slender neck. 

The underside of his arm is lined with long-healed scars. They span from the crook of his elbow before trailing down to the base of his wrist. The contrast of the amber liquid within the bottle is stark against his pale skin and light pink stripes. 

He stays in that position, tilting the bottle back and forth, listening to the sloshing sounds within. It reminds him of the day his ex had left him. 

That night had gone by quick enough. He recalls it the way trailers were projected on massive movie screens, each shot a brief, too-detailed image burned into the backs of his eyes. He could still taste the blood welling in his mouth, could still hear the sound of his whisky smashing against the wall in the red-hot fit where he’d lost his composure. 

Everything was too much and not enough at the same time, his sentiments overwhelming yet fleeting. And like movie trailers, and the breakneck bursts of action that distinguished them from other cinematic endeavors, the feud with his ex had happened too quick———and that meant Hisoka didn’t know that night had marked the end of what the two of them once had. Not until he had left Hisoka’s house with panicked steps and a shattered temperament to match.  
  


Setting the bottle down, Hisoka tunes in on the conversation out in the front. 

“We’ll make it. We always have.”

“I don’t know about that.”

  
  
The last sentence comes from Machi. From here, Hisoka can discern the doubt in her inflection, the slight falter. He leans his head further and perks his ears. 

“You’ve been getting more….Well. I don’t know.”

This statement comes from Shalnark. His voice sounds like an abrasive screw driving itself through Hisoka’s eardrums. He dreams of the day he’ll kill Shal. He’d imagined how it would go down a million times before, and his favorite fantasy was the one where he got to gut the man alive and choke him with the length of his intestines. 

Hisoka nearly laughs at this thought. Then Machi’s words come softer than before.

“I have my reasons. It’s just been stuff at home.”

  
  
“We’re your family. You’re like a daughter to me.”

  
  
“Stop, Nobu.”

  
  
“It’s true, we——“

  
  
Hisoka blocks the rest of their conversation out. She’d never open up to them before him. He examines the array of containers under the alcohol rack. He’s been crouched in front of it for the past five minutes, and while he has what he wants, he is still tempted to leave with something that’ll last him. 

Underneath the rack, there’s a particular box that catches his attention. It is small and made of stainless steel. Only Nobu knows the code to opening it. He’s taken it upon himself to keep the information to himself, and most of the Vipers have expressed their distaste at this. The question of trust always soared through the air and got itself lodged into the thick skin of contemptment. Nobunaga is Captain Ahab, and the Vipers are collectively the great whale Moby-Dick. Indeed, Nobu's motive is a harpoon flying through the air, trying to find the flesh of the whale, frantic to keep precedence and sway within the hearts of every Ray.

Nevertheless, his attempts were pitiful, futile. 

Still, Nobu would never change his argument. In spite of the flames that sprouted from the petrol of his desires, his overarching belief remained a constant refrain. 

_You can never be too careful._

It was the response of someone who had been hurt time and time again in the past. None of the gang knew his story, nor did anyone know how each member came to Nobu. There was a cardinal rule they heeded to without question, and it goes as follows: 

_The dirt of origins is loose. It carries away in the wind, and all that lingers are the roots running straight into the Earth, roots cultivated through the care of others._

_Family or otherwise does not possess a bearing._

_Choose your afflictions wisley. Do not question the motives of others if you cannot discern them yourself._

_And always pick the knife over the gun._

Hisoka extracts the steel box from beneath the shelf and spins the numbers on the lock. It opens with a soft click. He removes a modest stack prior to closing it again. The weight of the money in his pocket is nonexistent, though it reassures him that it’s not going anywhere. 

He gets up and takes a long look at the bottle in his left hand. The conversation outside has been reduced to nearly nothing, and so Hisoka walks out from the back room. 

When he sets the whisky on the table, everyone turns to him. It is only for a brief moment, a hiccup in time, but the unasked question hangs in the air nonetheless. 

“Do you guys think the Troupe is going to loot the casino on the Terrace?”

So that’s the topic of concern now. Hisoka fights back a smirk. 

“No. These gangs come and go. Their ambitions are what bring them down.” Feitan counters. 

Hisoka draws out his chair. When he settles into the upholstery , he says, “Their leader’s dashing, I’ll mention that.”

  
  
“ _Hisoka._ ”

Machi’s tone is a jagged-edged blade against her comrade’s throat.

  
  
“Oh, Machi. Can’t a man appreciate beauty?”

Nobunaga shakes his head. “This is why we don’t take you seriously.”

  
  
Hisoka toys with the pendant hanging from his neck. 

“A shame. It would be an interesting development. To see them try to infiltrate the place.”

Machi crosses her arms. “Wouldn’t be good if they succeeded in doing it.”

Hisoka opens the whisky and starts filling everyone’s cup. The drink flows in with lush splashes. 

“It could be good. If they got away with something of that magnitude, then what could we do?”

  
  
“But they wouldn’t get away. And the cops would then be patrolling every fucking corner in Seattle. Do you not realize how integral that casino is?”

  
  
“Guess there’s not much we can do.”

  
  
Machi kicks him in the shin. She only resorted to physical contact on a few occasions. 

  
This would be good. 

The walls surrounding the room are a light green. A mint green, Nobu would call it. And like the burning-fresh sensation of mint, Nobunaga had a penchant for pursuing promising opportunities. He lit up at each individual mention of the possible benefit from a given crime, his passion bright and crisp and pristine. 

Yet the potential burn that could result had him back away, shrink down into his shell. Hisoka had to wonder how much more of his bullshit the Vipers had to be subjected to. They teetered on the edge of prosperity, and if Nobu had taken the leap from one cliff to another, cut the rope of comfort wound around his neck——-well, who knew where they could be?

If they were to infiltrate the casino before the Troupe, how would that alter the trajectory of their influence? How much more power would they acquire, had they been able to slide under the scrutiny of the police?

Machi sips her drink. 

“There has to be something. Right, Nobu?”

  
  
Her line of sight is trained directly on Nobunaga. Hisoka’s grip around his cup tightens. 

“We’ll need to figure _this_ out. But not now.”

“By this, I think you mean heist, Nobu.”

  
  
Nobunaga ignores Hisoka. Machi fills in the silence.

  
  
“Then when are we gonna discuss the details of this? We _are_ in a meeting, right?”

  
  
“Don’t press me.”

And Machi doesn’t. She only scoots further back in her chair and hunches her shoulders. 

It was true that they all wanted to know now that it’d been brought up. Hisoka found out about it first, and this he knew without a doubt. But how the rest of his members came to discovering this information, he couldn’t discern. 

Regardless, it was plausible enough to believe they would catch wind sooner or later, since people tended to have eyes and ears in various places. Everyone in the room had connections, and each network splayed out the way the roots of a tree threaded through dirt, stabilizing the mind and body from above. One could be part of a gang, relying heavily on their members because their life _did_ depend on it——but if one didn’t have relations that extended outwards, they simply didn’t have enough to fall back on. 

“Are you not confiding more information because you don’t have a plan?” 

Hisoka musses his hair up. A few red waves fall into his face. 

“I’m not telling you guys more about it because my plans could change depending on how the auction goes.”

  
  
“Is that so?”

The air around Nobu grows dark. His presence grows closed and cagey, dark tendrils swirling around him. 

Questions held a certain weight. Even with the ones where a mere “yes” or “no” sufficed, the decision was still there, the power lying in the individual answering it. For a moment they determined where the track of the conversation would go, and Hisoka could feel Nobunaga’s confusion at his open-ended query, a query where an answer wasn’t necessary. 

He was floundering in Hisoka’s robust yet malleable grip, trying to decide whether to succumb to his provocations or to evade them entirely. 

Nobunaga starts rubbing his left arm with one hand. The material of his shirt ruffles as he soothes himself. 

“The problem you have, I think, is that you don’t know where your boundaries are.”

He stops rubbing his arm. Instead, he begins sliding the Uno cards into one large stack. Nobunaga tidies them up and then slips them into their battered box. Feitan and Shalnark briefly eye the door. 

Hisoka couldn’t say he was surprised at the path Nobu had taken. Evasion was his first resort, confrontation only addressed when there lay no other choice.  
  


“You should be grateful that your sharpness is what’s keeping you here.”

Here, words weren’t warranted. Hisoka only needed to stare into Nobunaga’s face without blinking, letting a smile twist his features. When the apples of his cheeks cause the edges of his eyes to crinkle, Nobunaga winces and gulps. It’s quiet enough, although Hisoka’s hoping he’s not the only one to have heard it.  
  
Anyway, he then traces a finger about the rim of his glass, humming. He’s tuning out Nobunaga again as he starts going on about some other predicament causing him stress. The Vipers may have been one of the most notorious gangs in Seattle, but every time they got together Hisoka could’ve sworn they acted like their meetings were more of a group therapy session than anything else. 

***

On Prich Avenue there are a couple of shops. But mostly there are warehouses. 

The area is part of an abandoned stretch of old Seattle. The bricks of most buildings have faded into weak, unpleasant shades of red. Comparatively, the metal lining window panes has rusted and deteriorated into thin spindles of iron. Occasionally a car passes through, but in the past hour Hisoka’s been sitting in his Honda, he hasn’t seen any. 

At the moment, he’s focusing on the Sage Warehouse. Beside all the other establishments, Sage appeared to be one of the most acceptable looking. 

He grabs his backpack off the passenger seat and unzips it. He rummages inside for a long, sharp needle. When it is nestled in his grip, he gets out of his car. 

After he’s locked it and begun his way towards the warehouse’s door, a chill travels through his body. Despite it being early August, the air around him is biting.

Once he’s at the door, he gets on one knee, and, looking over his shoulder, surveys the area one more time. Seeing that it was still empty, he inserts the needle inside of the lock. 

Picking it takes a couple of minutes. Hisoka has to jimmy it through and around certain structures within. The lock itself has to be at least twenty years old, so it comes as a surprise that it’s taking him this long to get inside the warehouse. 

But that doesn’t mean he’s unable to enter, because eventually, it gives way. When it does, he falls inside with a slight stumble before catching himself. He proceeds to shut the door behind him.

The inside of the warehouse can only be described as ornate. And even if the nature of warehouses lent themselves to practicality , the way the bars criss cross from above emits a muted air of opulence, like an aged woman decked in a tweed jacket with pearls strung around her neck, prancing about folk dressed in frayed jeans and worn, lint-covered hoodies. 

Yes, the warehouse had aged well. Hisoka could understand why it was still being used, why those that now owned it held onto it with a fervor akin to greed. 

He straightens out the wrinkles in his t-shirt. Then, he strides through every corner of the place, searching for the red tin box. 

His footsteps echo through the spacious atrium. The amount of times he’s had to stop and pick each individual safe he’s stumbled upon has already left his hands shaking. All his attempts at searching for what he was looking for was fruitless. A waste of time. With each door unhinged, his pockets remained empty. 

This did not stop him from persisting through. 

While Hisoka knew what he wanted was in a red tin box, he figured browsing around and surveying the rest of his options couldn’t hurt. He had the rest of the night.

As a kid, he’d constantly been told that he should’ve been grateful for what he had. Given that he hadn’t grown up with much, let alone enough, he merely took to ignoring this advice. He found it wasteful to turn a blind eye to new chances because one was afraid of losing what they had. 

To Hisoka, life had to be lived with a bit of risk, with a mirage of doubt shrouding every action taken, the chance to lose everything or gain twice as much imminent. Living in a manner which lent itself to a linear, lackluster rhythm made his heart sink. 

He would never succumb to becoming a robot, a slave to the collective desire for comfort. He was given one life, one shot, one trial——-and he’d be damned if he didn’t live it with the vigor of a wanted man on the run. 

Hisoka finds the wire stairs at the end of the first floor. He starts climbing them. Once he arrives at the landing, he analyzes this floor’s distinct design, the bends of every corner and the shadows cast in every contour. If the tin box hadn’t been downstairs, it had to be here. 

He begins creeping along the wall, eyes adjusting to the sparse lighting, acrylics now sliding over each individual locker but ultimately refraining from unlocking them.

He couldn’t—wouldn't—-leave without the contents of the box. It was first priority, the mighty strong steed dragging the carriage of his desires in tow. 

A clang emits from above. 

Hisoka looks up towards the ceiling. Some creaks and groans follow in succession. 

He cringes. Nevertheless, he continues on. But Hisoka makes sure to slow down, pay attention to any nuance popping into the field of his senses. 

In all honesty, it didn’t matter if someone was up above. It was dark enough down here that seeing a couple feet in front of one’s form proved challenging. Besides, if someone (or a group) had come down here, he had a number of crannies to hide within. And he may have been a big man, though he could contort his body beyond belief.

He’d learned the skill as a kid. Because it had proved itself useful time and time again, Hisoka made sure to hone it. 

Some time passes before he spots a red cube nestled in the top corner of the left wall. He’s been slinking along the right wall, and he’s not sure how he’s come to spot it on the other side of the room, especially considering the low light of the room. 

Anyway, the box has got to be at least fifteen feet off the ground. There’s absolutely no way he’ll be able to reach it. 

Hisoka looks about the room then, searching anything to stack. He’s only able to find a low, lonesome table, but it could be enough.

As he carries the end table to sit below the tin box from above, he takes a steadying breath. Then one of his many smirks graces his features. 

The top of the table is made of wrought metal. It looks like the sort of panelling plastered onto the ceilings of lavish coffee shops downtown. 

Hisoka sets one sneakered foot onto the top of the end table. It’s no more than a foot in width, and given the size of his feet, it would almost be a good idea to pray to God to not let him fall back on his head, cracking his skull open and bleeding out onto the indifferent obsidian concrete of Seattle’s coveted Sage Warehouse. 

When Hisoka sets his other foot onto the table, it shudders and creaks beneath his weight. The red tin box is still ten miles high. 

Hisoka extends his arm, although his acrylics only brush the bottom of the locker. Standing on his tiptoes, the very ends of his fingers hardly touch the end of the lock. He knows the code to open it up, though he can’t see any of the numbers. 

Hisoka lets out a low laugh. This was too typical. His life was made up of a patchwork of almosts and could-bes, of potential chances to dawn upon him and the many situations that defined the mural of his life——but alas. There would always be a barrier, a fence, a pair of ever-changing shackles holding him back. 

He knew the code, knew he could open it, knew he had all night to figure out a way to do so. 

And yet he couldn’t reach the fucking lock. Despite being 6’4, he couldn’t discern the numbers etched into the knob of the tin box.

More groans sound from above. Hisoka closes his eyes and cranes his neck upwards. There is a muffled dialogue between two people. Both voices sound soft. Probably female. 

Hisoka remains in this position for a bit longer. If they began descending the steps now, he’d be screwed. 

He focuses on the glinting knob from up above. The numbers are carved in. He could feel his way until he cracked the code. 

  1. _Just four numbers._



He sets a hand on the lock, thumb grazing each number, traveling along each groove. He really didn’t need to concern himself with the matter of time, even if those from above could descend at any moment. If he became too hung up on the aspect of getting caught, he’d never get this little safe open. 

After the lock clicks for the fourth time, Hisoka pulls back the door. There’s no give. 

Sighing, he gives it another go. He would not leave the place empty-handed. He couldn’t let himself. 

  
Again his thumb travels along the grooves of the knob, and for some reason, Illumi comes to mind. The way the knob had nearly no give to it and through the way its numbers were practically indiscernible reminded him of the model. 

And how he wanted to get under his skin. How he wanted to take a pickaxe and demolish his wall of arrogance, incinerate the cage he bound himself within, fuck him until he couldn’t walk.

How he wanted to see his skinny pale legs tremble from the strain of Hisoka ruining him.

He tries pulling back the door again. Still, there is no give.

Above there is more movement, and the two people up above converse some more. Their voices sound closer from where Hisoka is standing. In fact, they’re likely right over his head. He can nearly make out what they say. The flow of their conversation is a well-followed series of phrases linked together through a thread of warmth. 

. 

He’d love to sit around with his chin cradled between his thumb and forefinger, pondering about those that were lingering above and why they were there, though he had learned that it was better to acknowledge a threat at face value instead of wondering what exactly it was. 

So it goes that Hisoka is feeling along the grooves of the knob once more, hoping he’ll be able to make out the carvings of each number with accuracy. His thumb barely fits on the knob; therefore, he often finds himself having to readjust his grip. 

Hisoka takes a short breath. And he closes his eyes as he pulls at the door yet again. 

When the sound of creaking metal gives way to the contents of the box, a pair of footsteps sound down the stairs. 

Sometimes it’s a luxury to feel sorry for oneself. To sit around and think about how much better their life would be if events could’ve been rearranged in a certain manner. It would be foolish to allow such fantasies to pervade in one's mind, comparing them to reality and thus wallowing in a pool of pity.

And here Hisoka wishes to curse his predicament and then stab the people coming now in the throat, having their blood squirt out and onto his clothes——but he can only leap off the end table, shove it in a corner, and scour for a place to hide.

The closest area is across the room. The reverberation of their shoes bounces off the walls of the second floor. Hisoka glances from the corner of his eye.

He’s met with the sight of two pairs of shoes, first with only the toes visible, and then the ankles, and then he’s crouched in a cranny on the west side of the room.

The steps briefly stop. The two women speak to one another, although it’s in a voice low enough where Hisoka has trouble hearing any of it.

His wrist watch continues ticking on as the women skulk about the room. From the sound of their steps, they’re just a few feet shy of his hideout.

“Should we go?”

“I’d wait a bit.”

“There’s definitely someone here.”

“That doesn’t mean we need to leave.”

  
  
“You’re not making sense. How do you know if they’re after us, or——-“

  
  
“I have confidence we can defend ourselves. Don’t you?”

  
  
The other woman falls silent. A cold sensation spreads its way through Hisoka’s body, turning his blood to ice. Goosebumps prick up along his arms, and he’s smiling. 

He had a hard time determining when he wasn’t. 

The footsteps start up and away from Hisoka’s spot. 

“Wait. Do you see that?”

  
  
“Huh?”

  
  
“Over there. That safe’s wide open.”

“ _Shit_.”

There was only one thing left to do. Hisoka had hoped to leave the matter to the end, wrap up this task with a neat bow, wrecking any chance for others to try utilizing or appreciating the warehouse. He had intended to deprive it of its most valuable form of worth, skin it the way a hunter did after killing a deer, the idea of leaving the carcass to rot always imminent. Because with the primary good already acquired, what purpose did the rest of the body serve? Yes, the flesh could be eaten, and the warehouse could still be used as a headquarters——though without the skin of the deer to accentuate its beauty, the animal could only be regarded as a mass of meat. In the same vein, without the contents of the safe, the Sage Warehouse would turn into a hollow skeleton of what it once was.

  
  
The backpack is still slung over Hisoka’s shoulder. He proceeds to slip it off, and every time either woman speaks, he unzips his bag a little further. 

Once it’s wide enough to where he can reach inside, he wraps one hand around the neck of his Black Cherry Vodka.

  
  
“There’s a ladder somewhere upstairs. Stay here and watch for whoever’s come in. I should be able to find it quick.”

  
  
Hisoka takes the bottle out of the bag. And he also removes a box of matches. 

He knows exactly who is keeping watch. But he has yet to find out who the other woman is. Of course, this information does not stop him from rising from his spot. 

He peers out from the corner he’s hidden within. 

One of the women has her back turned to him, and her arms are crossed over her chest. She’s near the west side of the room. If he could start the fire from the east, that’d give her time to fly up the steps and go out through the fire escape. 

And it was dark enough in the room for her to have no clue who the arsonist would be. 

Therefore, Hisoka tiptoes towards the east side. Even if he wasn’t able to get the main things he wanted , Hisoka liked to finish his plate. Clean up after himself. 

The sound of the bottle shattering against the floor elicits a gasp from the far end of the room, and when Hisoka throws a match into the puddle of alcohol at his feet, there is a stirring of something foreign in his chest. 

Perhaps this is all he was looking for.


	6. SEE YOU IN HELL

Flames chase Hisoka’s heels, red and orange bodies around him dancing with the zeal of destruction. With every three steps taken a new wave of heat rolls over his body. He wants to look back to see just how close the fire is, but he knows he’d trip over his feet and end up engulfed in the inferno. It already seems that every moment he picks up the pace, the fire does so in return. 

All he can do now is continue up the stairs, the muscles and tendons in his quadriceps screaming, the sweat on his brow rolling down the sides of his face and beneath the collar of his shirt. 

  
The air around him crackles with urgency, the previous hum in the warehouse gone as the fire alarm howls.

Hisoka arrives at a landing, though he doesn’t let up on his speed. The fire escape is situated at the very top of the building, and judging from the previous times Hisoka had frequented this warehouse, he only has a couple more flights to go. 

He lunges across the length of the platform before starting up another flight of steps. Hisoka sees the woman in front of him approach the next landing before rounding the bend.

The fire licks the back of his shoe. 

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Hisoka takes one foot and presses it down on the toe of the shoe that’s charred. He slips his foot out and goes on racing up the steps, the angry burn on his heel screaming with the repetitive force. And along with each step, Hisoka’s lungs fill with less and less air. 

It’s hard to tell whether he’s plateaued at this current pace or if he’s beginning to slow down——because it sure feels like things are starting to get fuzzy, his senses lagging and mind buffering. 

In the past, Hisoka’s gotten himself into a number of ordeals, many of which he doubted he would exit alive. The uncertainty always added to the appeal, gilding a golden mystique around situations he should’ve opted to avoid entirely. 

His broken rib from last month still hasn’t healed, although the sharp, knife-like sensation has lessened immensely. When he’d first conceived the injury, he had barely been able to breathe, making both his jobs all the more difficult. 

The interesting thing about injuries was that they had a sick way of reminding someone of an event, and whether a fond memory was attached to it or not didn’t matter in the slightest. To Hisoka, injuries were only unwelcome on a practical level——but if he were to get down to his real convictions, he loved them the way a parent loves a newly disowned child, the adoration very much alive and well, distaste hardly overpowering instinctual sentiments. 

And now Hisoka was on the side of hating his injury . Four weeks and still a piercing nuance, all his half-healed rib did now was further squeeze out the air disappearing within the fire. 

Eventually, he reaches the landing the woman had raced up earlier. And when he also rounds the same bend, he finds that he’s only got one flight left to go.

The only issue was that this one looked about three times as long as all the others he’s climbed. 

Somehow this reassures him. Because in spite of the hell he’s gone through in the past few minutes, this was the end, grueling as it may have been. His head may be starting to spin and the heat of the fire all about him may have turned his surroundings wavy and left him with more black spots in his vision than he would’ve preferred, but alas. 

It didn’t matter anyway. The events of Hisoka’s life were nothing short of one long, glorified game. If he was going to die at the hands of his own recklessness, well, frankly, he didn’t want to go any other way. Why would he want to eradicate these opportunities if he cherished frequenting death’s door?

  
  
He’s a little less than half way up the steps, and he can tell he’s slowed down significantly. His legs are leaden chains dragging him back. His head is somewhere up in another realm, and he’s not sure he can fetch it back down. His entire body is marinating in various runnels of sweat, the taste of salt and ashes mingling in his mouth. 

He leaps up a few more stairs, his footsteps muted in the sound of the flame. 

And then it surges forward,meeting Hisoka’s backside. 

He lets out a scream, a gutteral bellow that may’ve been heard had the entire place not been sizzling and splintering and disintegrating with fervor. Hisoka rips off his shirt, the flimsy white fabric becoming blacker with every passing second.  
  


Really, doing that was easy enough. 

But his skin-tight jeans were unyielding, sticking moreso to Hisoka’s muscled legs via his layer of sweat. 

Upon first tearing off his shirt, he had felt a warmth blossom among his back, spreading from the small of it to the balls of his shoulders. Now, that warmth was turning to a biting, agonizing heat, eliciting grimaces from him at the most miniscule shifts. 

His other shoe is already off, and he’s undoing the button on his pants as he’s continuing up the steps, but if he’s ever felt anything worse than right now, he can’t recall. 

Because see, his whole body is shrieking with the type of desperation akin to a prisoner begging for death, dark bruises covering their body, their many wounds spilling blood at an alarming rate. Not a single coherent thought can be conjured from within his mind. His words have crumbled along with the beams holding up the Sage Warehouse, and if there’s any shred of intellect remaining within the grooves of his brain, all that comes of it is a gritty static. A long beep.

_Please stand by._

Now he can only move——though at this point, the prospect of doing so is debatable. His pants are still stuck to his body. Hisoka was able to rip the majority of them from his thighs and calves. 

This didn’t mean all of it came off. Rather, portions of denim have become ingrained into some of the burns marring Hisoka’s legs, fabric leeches lacerating his nerves. 

His breaths have become significantly heavier as well, and so when the last landing comes into view, it takes Hisoka all of his energy to race towards the fire escape near the left end of the room. 

The window has already been opened. The opening was small, the glass propped up just past the halfway mark. Gripping the metal end of it, he attempts to push it up more, his biceps screeching in protest. 

There’s no give. And the fire is back just 5 feet and much too close for comfort. 

Hisoka hops onto the sill and swings his legs out through the cramped opening. He’s able to get them out and onto the platform outside the building. When it comes time to pull his shoulders through, they get stuck. The width of the window is too small for him to even consider the possibility of getting out. Had Hisoka been able to shove the window up more, this wouldn’t have been an issue. 

The fire is near enough to where he can make out the specks of dust within the flames. Here, he watches blue and yellow and red and orange streaks move alongside one another, each color twisting and merging together. Their flickers and swells remind Hisoka of dancers performing a tango, legs carrying each person across the stage with effortless poise, the junction of both hands serving to increase momentum between each individual, guiding them through the moves of their craft.

Yes, these flames also coexist to enhance one another, strengthen their power as more fire sprouts up and rolls towards Hisoka. 

He twists his body sideways, bringing his arms right against the sides of his torso. He slips out the window a bit more, the air of the summer night cool against his back. 

Grimacing, he continues trying to wriggle his body through the opening, silently cursing whoever left it open halfway. 

The flames are two feet away at most. Hisoka struggles against the constraints of the window again and again and again, the fibers in his arms straining and constricting. 

He holds what little breath has circulated through his lungs. Then he squeezes his eyes shut, jerks his body back, and falls onto the platform’s corrugated metal. It digs into his raw red flesh. 

Hisoka groans, tears forming along the bottoms of his eyes. He forces himself up with trembling arms and even less stable legs. 

He begins down the building. Wails of firetrucks can be heard in the distance, and Hisoka’s trying to draw whatever strength is left within his body, trying to fly down the stairs faster. Deep down he knows he isn’t going fast enough, that this time he could end up screwing himself over beyond repair. 

His footsteps echo in the thick, stagnant air. 

In the night, Seattle turns to a city of lights, the dreary sort of bustle giving way to a teeming populace in pursuit of wild affairs. The cloak of darkness did little to hide what anyone was up to. There seemed to never be a shred of privacy, every action done beneath the city’s glaring streetlights and garish digital billboards. 

Though as for the dead parts of old Seattle, the darkness concealed the ploys of those with hidden motives better than double-edged words ever would. 

Here, gangs creeped around the corners and dead bodies were often found in alleyways. Cops and citizens alike treated Prich Avenue and the surrounding area as a radioactive wasteland, with the former party only visiting the area if directly prompted. 

The rest of Hisoka’s descent turns hazy, because he doesn’t realize he’s reached the bottom till he falls to his knees. Loose portions of gravel find purchase in his knees.

He inhales sharply, palms against the ground and wavy maroon hair falling in his face. 

He’s about ten feet away from the backside of the building, though it feels unbearably hot. Sure, he’s not caught in the midst of the fire now, although the heat here remains a close reminder, a nudge telling Hisoka to get his ass away from this scene. 

Also, the wails are growing closer by the minute. The air is slowly returning to Hisoka’s lungs, and the static that had settled in his mind is now gradually fading. But in place of these luxuries, a deep pressure drives through the expanse of Hisoka’s back, legs, and shoulders. The breeze riding through the city splits Hisoka’s muscles into a thousand sizzling wires. 

Thankfully, the parts of his skin that were burned have lost all feeling——the trouble was the portion surrounding all his burns were tender and sensitive as ever. 

It even hurts to breathe. 

On the bright side, he hadn’t incurred very many burns, given that he was mere inches away from being turned to a crisp. And really, the pain wasn’t too bad. He could still move about. It would be hard as hell to ignore the pain, although that didn’t mean he couldn’t do it. 

He would be fine. 

Tires sound right out front. Following this, dozens of doors slam shut. Handfuls of footsteps sound against the pavement. Hisoka forces himself to his feet and surveys the area. If he could put four blocks between himself and the firefighters now working on the warehouse, he’d be fine. Then, he could hide in an alley on the corner of Nelson Dive. He could sit at the mouth of it and watch the proceedings of the scene at a safe distance. 

His gait starts out slow and labored. He’s biting down real hard on his lip, and the sole thing preventing him from watching the warehouse collapse into nothing is the pain that would come of it. If he so much as ran his hand through the curls at the nape of his neck, knives would drill themselves into his nerve endings. 

So Hisoka keeps his gaze on the path in front of him, eyes scouring for screws or shards of glass on the ground. He couldn’t afford to have random shit gouging the meat of his heels. 

Still, he must hurry. It wouldn’t be long before the police came onto the scene, and it wouldn’t be hard to discern that an act of arson had been committed, either. They didn’t need much evidence to come to such conclusions, especially when taking into account the area the crime had been committed. 

There had been a time in Hisoka’s life where he’d been more careful, making sure to look over his shoulder after each step he took. This version of Hisoka triple checked the locks on his doors and kept three weapons on himself at any given time. 

Something had happened in the time before and after joining the Vipers. Something had slipped loose from the cogs of his mind, leaving only sharp pieces behind. It went without saying that Hisoka used these pieces against others, his grip around the shard burrowing into his skin and drawing blood. 

The buildings that enter and leave his line of sight all look like they haven’t been frequented in decades. The windows are fogged up with accumulations of dust and there’s more rust than paint on any given door. Wires belonging to power lines droop horribly low, the rubber casing around them completely gone in more than a dozen areas. As the breeze blows through again, Hisoka grits his teeth. Once a blessing and now a curse, Hisoka could only laugh at the irony of it all. Because whether these damned burns were on his body or not, he couldn’t ignore the twist of betrayal that powered his heart. This sensation is what colored his cheeks and caught the shimmer in his eyes. 

He wallows in this acidic feeling. And while the wind is nothing more than the accumulation of different currents, it has turned from friend to foe, one who toys with the protagonist to see just how much they could take. 

The pendant around Hisoka’s neck turns heavy. The urge to look over his shoulder is stronger than ever. 

But he only has another block to go. Curiosity set aside, he cannot afford to inflict more pain upon himself. 

After a few long, drawn out minutes, Hisoka arrives at the mouth of the alleyway. When he takes in the scene before him, he can’t help but grin, his smile spreading apart the tense muscles under his cheeks. His eyes crinkle at the edges, and he knows they do because Machi knees him in the stomach when she takes in the look on his face. 

***

Machi wasn’t the only person in the alley. Beside her was Pakunoda. Miraculously, neither of them have inflicted burns. In the time Hisoka had recovered from Machi’s hit, he’s been pressed up against the wall, with Pakunoda pinning down both his wrists and Machi’s gun set against his head. 

Threatening stances set aside, neither of the women appear to want to kill Hisoka. Pakunoda’s grip may be cruel and unrelenting, but she expresses concern when taking in the state Hisoka is in. 

“Holy shit…” Paku’s eyes rove over Hisoka’s legs. “The fire absolutely ruined you.”

  
  
Hisoka would respond with a snarky quip if it weren’t for the knives of agony stabbing under his skin. Right now, he’s just focusing on staying conscious and being able to comprehend the words coming from Machi or Paku. 

“What have you done?!” Machi demands. 

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”  
  


Machi presses the gun further into Hisoka’s temple. He is reminded of last week’s kidnapping. The range of Machi’s kindness never failed to amaze him. She could procure her pistol at the merest annoyance, but when it came to a little blond teenage twink, she had gone soft as pudding, saying it wasn’t fair they were trafficking the little squirt, saying he didn’t deserve this when his whole life was ahead of him. 

She’s been doing this for years, and never has she desensitized herself to the exploitation of teens and children. Hisoka found it ridiculous.

  
  
Paku cuts in, her voice rich and stern. “Why did you set fire to Sage? Hisoka, we—-“

  
  
The expression on Hisoka’s face cuts her off. Machi looks between them, her eyes going wide as saucers. 

For a couple beats, there is only silence. The sound of water dripping from busted gutters creates a sense of eerie calm between the three of them, maybe a reminder that all could be washed over, that all could be remedied. 

Alternately, it could serve as a warning for the two women that they may be facing new beginnings, that they may have to wipe their current slate clean. Hisoka has never seen water as a soothing, pure element. When he thought of water, only hurricanes came to mind. Or tsunamis. Or anything that only slashed civilizations with whips and volatile fury. 

“What the fuck is going on here?!” Machi barks .

“I could ask the same of you.”

She lets out a mangled sigh. Hisoka observes the way her toes squirm in her canvas flats.

  
  
“I really, really don’t know why...why you did this.” Paku’s voice falters after every few syllables, tears rising to the rims of her eyes before she forces them down. 

Machi keeps the gun pressed to Hisoka’s temple, hand trembling, eyes downcast. “He tried to kill us, didn’t he?!”

Hisoka smiles. “Not quite.”

“Then what the hell did you try to do? You know, I could pull the trigger right now. It wouldn’t hurt me, or Nobu, or Shalnark, and definitely not Feitan.”

  
  
She had a point. She could leave him to rot in this alleyway, nearly ass-naked and half-burned. She’d be doing the world a favor, that was certain. 

And Hisoka knew he deserved it. He also knew she wasn’t going to do it. Because as much as she reiterated her hate towards him, they had a bond as strong as steel. Never would she bring herself to put a bullet through his head, not when he was the shoulder she cried on and the person she consulted for advice. 

Machi brings her mouth next to Hisoka’s ear. “No one fucking likes you. I don’t know why I keep forgiving you and offering second chances. You’re better off dead, and you’ve got to know that by now.”

“It’s too bad I’m alive then, now isn’t it?”

A tingle grows in Hisoka’s chest, first a pleasurable feeling before a gargoyle manifests within and claws up his insides with jagged talons. 

Nevertheless, he basks in this, relishes it with a sick vehemence. To cultivate friendships or bonds or even paintings he worked on was enjoyable enough. The process had its perks. It was an entirely different thing to tear them all apart, to witness his own eyes growing wide and mouth salivating at distressed demeanors and disfigured works of art. 

“I won’t hesitate to kill you. I really won’t.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Don’t try me. Not now.”

“Machi,” Paku warns. 

“Are you not comprehending what just happened? Do you not understand that we almost _died_?! Do you not care about any of that?”

  
  
“You need to understand that having a level head is what’s important right now. We’ll have time to…”

  
  
“Time to what? Huh? Are you not gonna finish your sentence because you’re too busy trying to maintain your facade of stability? Because you know what, Paku? You know what?”

  
  
Machi’s gun now rests beside her. Instead, she has turned to face Paku head on. Her voice reverberates off the walls, and maybe Hisoka’s seeing things, but one eye appears as though it’s twitching. The heat is rising in her cheeks, coloring them a violent red. 

Paku lets go of Hisoka’s wrists. He allows them to hang limply at his sides.

”Machi, you’re being an insufferable bitch. Is the way you’re acting going to get us anywhere?” 

“I fucking hate you! You know that! I fucking wish you were dead!”

  
  
“I know you don’t mean that.”

  
  
Hisoka groans. His ears are starting to ring. “Can we pay attention to what _I_ have to say? Last time I checked, I’m the reason you two are in deep water. Also, Machi, you’re being louder than you should be. The firefighters are being loud too, but that doesn’t give you an excuse to scream.”

  
  
Machi clenches her jaw, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Go ahead and talk, then.”

Once again, Hisoka has their undivided attention. And he reckons it will serve both women well.

He considers what order to phrase the following information in. Brevity and clarity were of utmost importance. Before he speaks, he hums a short tune while organizing his thoughts. Then he snaps the band on his underwear.

Machi cringes. Paku briefly averts her gaze. Hisoka swallows his laughter and clears his throat.

“You see, I’ll need you two to help me kill Nobunaga. And if you don’t, I’m turning the Vipers in to the cops. I’ve collected enough evidence over the past couple of months. It’d be hard not to believe me.”

Things go deathly quiet. 

There are many types of shock. Most result in prolonged bouts of silence. Following this, one of two things usually occurs. Either people proceed to shoot questions at a machine-gun speed, voices frantic and soaring like a group of feral banshees. The other reaction was avoidance, a turning of backs and an extreme aversion to further discussion, a desire to neglect the sudden revelation and what it brought.

  
  
Hisoka’s not concerned in regards to how this will pan over. He’s too focused on absorbing their reactions. Spit is gathering in his mouth, and his stomach growls. If he could consume their hurt and anguish, he would. He really would. 

To lick his fingers covered in the salt of their tears would be total bliss. 

“By the way, Paku, I’m sure you wouldn’t want your girlfriend in jail.”

A flash runs through her. Paku pulls her blazer tighter. “And what makes you think we’re dating?” 

“I’m not dull. It’s clear as day. The way you gaze at one another is very telling.”

Paku huffs, the hair around her jaw fluttering. Machi then butts in. 

“Do you really think I’m going to believe you’ll snitch? You’d probably end up in jail too.” 

“I don’t care. The more I interact with you these days, the more I wonder if you really know who I am.”

“Sometimes I like to think you’re someone different.”

“Idealism never got people anywhere.”

A shadow passes over Machi’s face, a storm cloud growing dark with oncoming rain. 

“I will say it comes as a pleasant surprise, seeing you in this state. I didn’t know if I’d ever blow out your fire.”

  
Paku cocks a brow.

“It really would be best to kill you here and now.”

“Like I said, I wouldn’t mind that.”

Hisoka raises his arm to check his watch. He is only met with an empty space where the chunky timepiece should be. The skin it’s meant to occupy is even paler than the rest of his arm.

He looks up and out in the direction of the warehouse. More parts are charred and crumbled than before, but the majority of the flames have been put out.

Hisoka scans Paku and Machi’s wrists. He doubts either woman has a phone on them. 

That could be dealt with later. Other things needed to be addressed promptly.

“You see, if you two can actually manage to be patient and listen to the rest of my deal, maybe you’ll reconsider.”

The sound of cars honking is distant. Moonlight filters through the alley, coloring Paku and Machi in a cold, ghostly hue , the both of them encased in ice. 

“We ought to find somewhere else to discuss this.” Hisoka mentions.

Paku takes a couple steps towards Hisoka. Their faces are less than a foot apart. “You’re going to answer the rest of my questions before we’re going anywhere.”

  
Machi’s gun finds Hisoka’s temple once more. 

“Your loss.”

  
Paku shakes her head, brow furrowing. “Fuck you.”

“I mean, if you’re down to go at it I won’t—-“

“Why the hell did you set fire to the warehouse? You’ve been evading a verdict from the start. ”

Hisoka sighs.

  
  
“Firstly, I didn’t think you and Machi would be there. Not alone, and certainly not together.”

“Go on.”

  
  
“Well, I had planned on doing so from the start. I just like to see things go down in flames. I’ve burned six different buildings in the last eight months or so.”

Paku runs a hand through her hair. Once she reaches the end of her cropped bob, she begins the process again, dainty fingers raking up golden strands.

Hisoka shrugs. “This is a hobby of mine, that’s all.”

“The Troupe is going to go berserk. How dumb can you be?”

  
  
“Oh. It was a meeting base.” Hisoka is quick to cover his smirk with a half-hearted frown. “Guess I forgot.”

  
  
Paku pinches the bridge of her nose. Shortly after, she begins pacing.

“Did you at least get me my money? Or those files? Or….” She trails off, saying all this to herself, but Hisoka hears every last word. Evidently, Machi has too, because now she reels around to face Paku.

“You were in cahoots with him?!”

  
  
Paku’s mouth draws into a thin line. “It’s not what you think—-“

Her sentence gets chopped the way a head does at the guillotine——because here in this filthy nook on Nelson Drive, Machi charges towards Pakunoda, her strides loping and both arms outstretched in parallel matchsticks . 

Within a second, her knee hits Paku’s chest, and a dense thud fills the alley. Paku cries out as she falls against the cement.

Hisoka takes in the scene with raised brows. 

“What the fuck were you planning with him?! I thought I could trust you, and yet you put both of our lives at jeopardy? And for what? For what, Paku?”

  
At this proximity, it is too easy to see the waves of tremors passing through Machi’s body, making her shifty and unstable. 

“Get the fuck off me.”

“Not until you tell me what is going on!” Machi takes a shuddering breath, her voice squeaky from the tension of oncoming sobs.

“You wouldn’t get it.”

  
  
“Patronizing her is only going to make things worse, I’m afraid.”

  
  
Pakunoda ignores him. Machi continues.

“Did you actually think I was going to accept that response?”

“Well..” Paku pauses, wincing.”I dont have time to explain here”

“You could make time if you wanted.”

Paku grits her teeth. They shine a pretty pearly white. Hisoka briefly pictures ripping them out of her mouth and stringing every tooth on a necklace. 

“I find that interesting, coming from you. I mean...you’re constantly on the move, never planning ahead.”

In the disarray of this charged atmosphere, Hisoka finally comes to understand why the roar of cicadas bothers other people—-because it's not until now that he finds the incessant song burrowing into his head, the once meaningless drone turned to a ballad encompassing what Paku and Machi were becoming. 

“I used to question how you and Hisoka could ever be friends. But the similarities are hard to ignore.”

Machi drops her gun. It clatters over to Hisoka’s foot.

“And if you took time to…reign in your impulsivity, think of why I do shit..you’d understand where I was coming from.”

“I don’t think I would.”

In spite of this, Machi lessens the pressure on Paku’s chest. When she slides off her, Hisoka catches a glimpse of her state. Her eyes are unfocused. A newfound haze has settled over them, and it’s likely casting the rest of her world in a blur, softening the edges around what was real and what wasn’t. 

Hisoka had been in the same spot some time ago. Betrayals did that to you. 

“Do you not know what loyalty is ?” 

This comes from Machi. Paku regards her with a look Hisoka doesn’t bother dissecting. He knows about the rest of this tale and what’s going to ferment between them. Hisoka starts examining his acrylics, humming to himself.

  
  
At the moment, he couldn’t do anything, as the three of them are wound up in the same length of rope. They’re intertwined in a way where if one person moves, the other is going to get choked. An attempt at defiance would result in the termination of a life, and Hisoka needs to wait until things settle a bit before he makes his move. As much as Hisoka won’t allow his life to depend upon the recklessness of Paku and Machi, it remained wise to let them process things for a bit. 

Indeed, they’re too caught up in the whiplash of tonight’s events, but as more minutes pass on his imaginary wristwatch, the more convinced he is that they need a reminder. They were there for a reason, and everything’s gone to hell because of one man and one man only.

He picks up the gun and shoves it beneath the elastic hem of his briefs. 

  
“Machi, Paku, cut it out. Unless you all want your asses in the nearest police station, I suggest we take this discussion elsewhere.”

  
  
“Discussion.” Machi scoffs. “The nerve you have.” 

“Just listen to what I’m going to say now.”

Both pairs of eyes take Hisoka in. Machi damn near looks like a vegetable, her autonomy but an elephant hanging on a thread thinner than silk. And Paku looks like she’s ready to tear Hisoka’s insides out and then stuff them all down Machi’s throat.

It was a nice contrast. Different and dynamic.

  
  
“I can’t believe I was stupid enough to make this deal to start. I should’ve known better.” Paku mentions. 

“Man does anything to gain wealth. You’re not above anyone else.”

“At least I’m above you.”

“Does moral ranking matter if you live in misery?”

Hisoka stares at her with a grin etched into his face. He loves watching the way her eyes narrow and how her nose scrunches up in disgust. Her mouth opens, and all that comes out is a mumble. With a voice once lavish and sexy, she has been rendered a weak, senseless puppy with dislocated legs and a nose half-hanging off.

Alas, he musn’t savor this for too long.

Instead, what Hisoka does now is he starts down the alleyway, ass hanging out of his too-tight underwear, shoulders back and head held high, the throbs pulsing through him reduced to a minor inconvenience. 

As he puts distance past the two women, he croons, “Are you coming or not?”

For a moment, there is nothing. Then, he hears movement behind him. The click of Paku’s kitten heels follow. 

“So you’re just gonna go after him like that?”

  
  
Paku’s steps halt. She squares her shoulders. 

“Do we have much of a choice?”

Machi remains in her spot. Hisoka continues down the alley, her gun in his underwear, and by the time she realizes its weight is missing, she comes up in the rear. She does not, however, wrestle him for the weapon. 

\---

They’re all in Hisoka’s Honda. It reeks of weed and too-strong air freshener. Paku’s seated in the back, and Machi’s in the passenger seat. She’s turned backwards so she can look directly at Paku. Hisoka is also turned backwards for the same reason. He’s leaning on the car’s console, his head cradled in one palm. Pakunoda is the first to speak. 

“So. Killing Nobunaga.”

  
  
“Why do you even want to do that? What do you have to gain?”

  
  
At last, Machi has let go. Tears stream down her cheeks. 

“It should be obvious enough. However, being that you can’t put two and two together, I’ll explain.”

  
  
Paku crosses one leg over the other, and Hisoka catches a glint of something beneath her cropped blazer. He doesn’t let his gaze linger.

  
  
“If we can kill Nobu, I can and will become the new leader of the Vipers. It’s hardly a secret that Nobu can’t manage the gang. Not the way he used to.”

  
  
Hisoka takes a breath. 

“He’s become too cautious. And it’s hurting us. We could pull off the biggest heist Seattle’s ever seen if I was the leader. The casino on the Terrace has enough money to last the four of us a lifetime.”

Machi has gone nonverbal. It seems that the gravity of her impending loss was settling on her, the asteroid of the oncoming events shooting towards the Earth’s malleable terrain. It was something she watched with a heavy heart and a pinhole-sized esophagus, clammy hands covering eyes peeping through the spaces between each finger. 

What could she do? It was either her or Nobunaga. If she’d objected, she’d end up in jail with the rest of the gang members, Nobu included. 

This is what made Hisoka’s agenda so sticky.

  
  
On top of that ordeal, it wasn’t hard to manipulate the cops to one’s will. Hisoka had the power to withhold information from them unless they complied with _his_ terms. And see, he knew they would succumb to his whims.

Machi must be well aware of this. Paku is another story entirely. 

Heedless to his power now, Paku acts assertive and dominant in _his_ car, shackled by _his_ terms. Along with Machi, she’s caught in his intricate spider’s web, but she doesn’t realize she’s a fly writhing in the center.

Hisoka speaks before Paku prepares to object. 

“Don’t fret. You’ll get a hefty share of the casino money too. I don’t give a fuck if you’re part of the Troupe. You’ve helped me out a lot already.”

Paku purses her lips. “You think this is actually going to work?”

“You underestimate me.” 

Paku laughs. It would be a pretty sound if it weren’t for the gloom shrouding it. Hisoka ignores the way it engraves itself into his head. 

“Look, our top priority is killing Nobu.”

Paku’s hand fingers the hem of her pencil skirt. The polyester snaps back into place once she draws out her knife. 

Hisoka’s admiring the way it reflects the pissy light of far-off streetlamps when she pounces on him, pinning the man to the steering wheel. Her breaths are loud within the car’s cramped insides. Up close, he can see a light sweat form along her brow, a billion biting diamonds. 

“Anything you need to tell me before you go down under?”

“Hm. I’m not a man of many words.”

The sleek blade against Hisoka’s throat felt relieving. He was almost ready to relax every muscle in his body and submit to whatever Paku had planned. What he also found nice was that Paku of all people had him pinned to the wheel. 

The woman was absolutely gorgeous. Thick lashes framed her large gray eyes. With hair cut along a narrow, pointed jaw and heart-shaped lips set in the center, Hisoka could only dream of fucking her. 

Though when it came down to it, she didn’t awaken anything inside him. He could claim he wanted to fuck her, claim that the blade against his throat was making him more aroused by the second, but who he really wanted holding that blade was Illumi. With a frame bordering on gaunt and a complexion stark enough to captivate, he was Hades if the Greeks thought death beautiful. 

  
“Stop. Kill him and I’ll kill you.” 

Paku keeps Hisoka in the same position for the next few beats. As she backs off him, she gives Machi a once-over. Her expression warps into a dark quilt, features tense and too close together.

  
  
“I didn’t know he matters more to you than I do.”

  
  
“Can’t you let me catch a break?”

Paku leans forward in her chair, never taking her eyes off Machi. 

In turn, Hisoka’s friend stares at the floor. She’s deflated, shrunk in on herself and turned to nothing more than a shriveled raisin. 

Either Paku takes note of this and ignores it, or she’s too focused on the proposals he’s already presented. Because all Paku does then is address Hisoka, fingers now gliding over the blade of her dagger. 

“So what’s the plan?”

“We sneak into his apartment. Don’t bring guns, obviously.”

“That’s all you got?”

“I’ll share the other details later on.”

“How soon? The night before?”

  
  
“Perhaps.”

  
  
“Bastard.”

  
  
“Keep in mind this won’t be difficult . Three against one is hardly something to worry about.”

“We don’t even know if he’ll be completely alone.”

  
  
“Nothing’s ever set in stone. Paku, you need to acquaint yourself with the prospect of uncertainty.”

“If I wasn’t eager to throw my life away at every turn, maybe I would.”

“Maybe you would.” 


	7. ONE-TRACK MIND

Hisoka’s waiting outside of Illumi’s apartment. He’s got his guitar case slung over his shoulder, and the texture of the canvas rubbing against his ass is starting to irritate him. 

To be fair, he’s done this to himself. He has chosen to wear shorts that can’t contain all of his ass. But he has had enough of covering himself from neck down. 

Indeed, for the first few weeks following the fire, Hisoka had to wear long sleeved tees and loose pants. The wardrobe change had earned looks from many of his coworkers. Some congratulated him on buttoning up more than half of his shirt. Others thanked him for wearing pants that didn’t make his bulge horribly evident. 

But this era was relatively short-lived. 

Since that time, Hisoka’s scars have healed nicely, much to Paku and Machi’s surprise. However, they are still fairly evident in the midst of the tattoos covering each limb. White scars mar the length of his legs in jagged, disorderly strips. 

Still, despite the garish way the scars cut across his legs, he would show as much skin as he wanted. Beyond the tiny shorts, Hisoka has also opted to wear a tight baby tee, the onyx stud piercing his navel on display. His nipple piercings poke through the thin fabric of the shirt as well, the word “SLUT” written across the front. 

Briefly, Hisoka wonders how Illumi will react to his outfit. He wonders how his eyes will travel over his body, where his gaze will snag. Hisoka has enough experience under his belt to discern the heat or lack thereof within one’s expression. 

Hisoka then checks his phone. Illumi is running fifteen minutes late. 

Eventually, Hisoka takes to browsing Instagram. He makes sure to check his profile, noting his current follower count and the ever-growing skinny ratio. 

Unlike most of his coworkers, he mainly uses the app for business purposes. His feed primarily consists of dye jobs done outside of Firestarter, although he does post the occasional selfie. 

Hisoka proceeds to click on the search icon. He begins typing Illumi’s name in. His username pops up after Hisoka has entered the first few letters. 

Unfortunately, his profile is dry as can be. Illumi barely posts, and when he does, it is entirely work related. Pictures from shoots fill up his feed, and Hisoka sighs. None of the photos were sensual in the slightest. 

Really, he couldn’t say he expected anything else of the model. This seemed like the exact approach he’d take when managing a social media account. 

Hisoka presses on a full body picture. Illumi is seated on a stool, and his legs are spread far apart. He’s clad in a tank top and a pair of acid-washed shorts. 

At long last, there’s _something_ Hisoka can save for later. He screenshots the image. 

As Hisoka starts feasting on Illumi’s slim, hairless legs, his stomach lurches. He’s climbing up Illumi’s calves and smooth thighs with more eagerness than he’d anticipated. Before long, he stares at the fly of the model’s shorts, noting the slight bulge, picturing how big his cock was underneath. 

There was also the tank top to consider. It was tight enough to where Hisoka could make out his lean, sculpted muscles. If only he could reach through the screen and rip that top in half, threads of cotton parting like the Red Sea to reveal——

“Hisoka?”

  
  
Hisoka swiftly exits Instagram before shutting his phone off. 

“Hey, Pretty Boy.”

Illumi cringes and takes a step back.

“What are you wearing?”

Hisoka could ask the same of him. Illumi has on a pair of baggy gray jeans, a striped orange turtleneck, and a bright green infinity scarf. His pants are rolled up just past the ankle, and beneath them he has on mismatched neon socks. Oddly enough, he’s also wearing a velvet choker.

Hisoka fingers the collar of his tee. “I’d wager I’m wearing clothes.”

“Surely not enough.”

  
  
Hisoka blinks slowly. He sizes up Illumi from head to toe, the track of his eyes languid and lingering.

  
  
“And you thought that combination looked good together, did you?”

  
  
“There’s nothing wrong with it.”

  
  
“Nothing wrong with it. Alright.”

In one step, Hisoka is able to lessen the distance between him and Illumi. He closes a hand around his infinity scarf, drawing the model closer yet.

Illumi’s eyes go wide for a moment before thinning into two sharp slivers. His mouth pulls down to one side, the move subtle as a potter readjusting the mold of their piece on an ever-spinning wheel. 

Outside, the sun still shines, and the sky is a vivid blue. Heat closes in from every side, the air around both men muggy and oppressive. A faint sheen of sweat glistens on Illumi’s forehead. 

Hisoka tilts his head a bit. “Don’t you think it’s hot to be wearing all that?”

“I’m not hot.”

As Hisoka brings one finger to Illumi’s forehead, the model recoils and curses at him.  
  


“Don’t touch me.”

  
  
Hisoka leans back and cackles. The sound bounces in the corridor of the apartment complex. His eyelids come closed as he does so, though he can picture the distaste streaked across Illumi’s face. And as he brings the world back into his focus, back into his governance, he’s pleased to discover his assumptions are accurate. 

Yet suddenly, he finds his hand on Illumi’s shoulder, finds his touch yearning to witness the sensation of Illumi’s body under it, and with it, the desperation to right the impact of his joke. His brows come together in a flimsy thread of apology. 

“You’re not sweating _that_ much. Don’t fret.”

Illumi shrugs his hold off and walks past Hisoka. A high blush colors the apples of his cheeks. 

Following this, Illumi fishes out his apartment keys from one pocket and unlocks the door, working the key through the lock and spinning it round. He almost falls forward once the door comes open. His head, formerly resting on the surface of the door, dips through and into his abode, feet stumbling behind in a sequence of dense thumps. 

After entering the threshold, Illumi adjusts his posture and turns back towards Hisoka. His brows are set low and his hands are stuffed in his pockets. 

Hisoka tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, looking directly at Illumi. “May I come in, your Majesty?”

Illumi simply retreats into his apartment, leaving the door open. Hisoka prowls through. 

Inside, the walls are a cornflower blue. There are sparse decorations hanging off them, plain steel frames lining family portraits and poorly drawn landscapes. Hisoka walks in further, espresso floorboards creaking. 

Illumi’s seated on a couch near the center of the room. A small stack of papers sits on a clear glass coffee table. He’s pouring over one sheet, scribbling notes in the margins with an auburn pen. 

“Already getting to work?”

  
  
Illumi opts out of responding. Hisoka slips the guitar case from his shoulders and plops down on the sofa. As he removes his acoustic guitar from its gig bag, Illumi looks up from his papers. 

“I only asked for help on one thing. I don’t intend to slack off.”

  
  
“Illumi,” Hisoka whines. 

“Did you not understand the conditions I set before allowing you here?”

  
  
“You don’t have to act so professional.”

  
  
“There is no other way for me to act around you. We are not friends.”

“Hey, now. I think we’re a little past coworkers.”

  
  
Something sparks in Illumi. It could be because of the way Hisoka slathered these last few words along the cold river separating him from Illumi, allowing them to fall out in a wandering drawl. There could’ve been more to his words, sure, but Hisoka wasn’t interested in giving the matter more thought. 

  
  
And it didn’t matter where his reaction came from. The blush has crept back to the edges of Illumi’s cheeks, his formerly flat eyes now dynamic and shining. He’s also blinking more often, though Hisoka doubts he realizes this. Typically, Illumi hardly blinked, his gaze rapt and dreamy. 

Here, he blinks every few seconds, an owl turned into a fidgety mouse. 

Illumi draws the paper he’d been working on from the table. He sets it in his lap and focuses on the lyrics. 

“Let’s just get started.”

  
  
“Do you have the sheet music around?”

Illumi hands him a folded paper without sparing him a glance. Hisoka huffs.

“Is something wrong?”

  
  
The guitar, formerly set under Hisoka’s sinewy arms and above his full thighs, now sits discarded by his feet. He takes Illumi’s face and turns it in his direction. His thumbs run over the track of Illumi’s cheekbones. 

“Don’t treat me like a commodity, babe.”

  
  
Hisoka lets each hand linger upon Illumi’s sunken cheeks. Illumi cringes. 

“There is no reason to have your hands constantly all over me.”  
  


“Can we make a deal, Illumi?”

  
  
Before he says anything, Illumi takes Hisoka’s hands and wrenches them from his face. But they remain enclosed around each wrist for far longer than they should be, and it seems neither of them are able to tear their gaze from one another.

  
  
And here in this indifferent apartment skirting the edge of the city, both men loiter in the limbo of where they shouldn’t be, obligations still ushering them to where they _need_ to be. It is in these moments that particular charms of the past grow encased in amber, every minute detail forever remembered.

Slowly, Illumi’s fingers come apart, and he twists towards the coffee table once more. Hisoka picks up his guitar. They sit in silence for a bit before setting to work.

Drifting into the flow of repetition and renovation, Illumi and Hisoka each grow invested in the broken melody they unite around and above their heads. An indeterminate amount of time passes when Hisoka’s fingers start aching. He inhales through his nose and meets Illumi’s face. 

“Seems like you really needed a guitar player after all, huh.”

  
  
Illumi tenses.“I just don’t like playing.”

  
  
“Never heard someone say that.”

  
  
“How many friends of yours make music?”

  
  
Hisoka racks his brain, running through a list of those he talked to, and then those he considered friends. None came to mind.

“Not many, admittedly.”

  
  
A lapse settles between them. For a moment, Illumi’s head dips. However, it snaps up just as fast, words swiftly surfacing to his lips. 

“Do you have friends?”

The question comes out with such pointed intensity. Hisoka swallows laughter. 

“Who doesn’t?”

  
  
“I don’t. I always found the idea of them dumb.”

  
  
“What makes you say that?”

  
  
“The prospect of talking to someone solely for the sake of leisure is a waste of time.”

“Why are you asking me if I have friends if you think that?”

  
  
“I don’t know. I was just wondering if what I thought was normal.”

  
  
“Fuck normal.” 

“Being normal is what someone should strive for.”

  
  
“Well, you’re far from it.”

  
  
Illumi looks away. “What do you think I am?” 

His voice is quiet and low.

  
  
“A freak. And that’s why I’ve stuck around.” Hisoka offers him a cutting smile. 

“Because see, I’m one too.”

  
  
Illumi swallows hard. “I need to change.”

  
  
“You do. Not for the reasons you think, though.”

  
  
“What do you mean?”

  
  
“You need to relax. I mean, do you even have a life outside of your job?”

  
“I care for my brother.”

  
  
“That’s it?”

  
  
“I have a boyfriend too.”

  
  
A warmth breeds in Hisoka’s chest, first branching out before racing down his torso. 

Hisoka crosses his legs, careful to divert attention from his oncoming erection. He drapes an arm over the back of Illumi’s sofa, frowning at the contradictions he plaited. 

“That doesn’t make sense.”

  
  
“What doesn’t?”

“The fact that you have a boyfriend, but still think that having friends is pointless.”  
  


Illumi goes quiet. Hisoka leans forward, tilting his head until a chunk of his hair tumbles across his face and over his brow. The more he got to know Illumi, the more confusing he became. The moment he thought he had him all figured out, knots of his temperament undone and wide open for inspection——the moment when he would lean to take the first twine between two fingers, intricacies flaking off at his fleeting hold——-that was the moment the entire spool would careen out of his hold and back into the gaping abyss Illumi had once been.

The abyss he still was. 

Hisoka steals a glance at the sheet before Illumi. 

“Could I see the lyrics of your song?”

  
  
Illumi looks elsewhere, rubbing the nape of his neck. 

“You have heard me sing it. I don’t see the point in doing that.”

  
  
“You slur your words when you sing. It’s hard to make out a lot of what you’re saying.”  
  


“They are personal.”

  
  
Hisoka raises a palm up at the ceiling. He proceeds to twirl his fingers around in an imaginary cyclone while he talks. 

“But that’s the beauty about lyrics. No matter how personal they are, they’re always ambiguous. I could interpret those words differently than how you intended them to be perceived.”

“Let’s just start practicing again.”

  
  
“Hey. Hey.”

  
  
Illumi shoots him a glare. Hisoka gives it no heed. 

“I’m doing you a favor. You could show me some respect, okay? How many times do I have to remind you of that?”  
  


“Fine. If you want to invade my personal privacy, feel free.”

  
  
Hisoka shrugs and reaches to take the lyrics sheet. His fingertips are alight and itching for the paper. As he brings the sheet close, he surveys each stanza like a trailblazer exploring the fronts of potential innovation. There’s a hunger in the way he absorbs Illumi’s musings. 

As he approaches the bottom of the page, he starts from the top again, this time going slower, the initial greed having tapered. 

Illumi’s stance turns closed. 

But Hisoka’s attention was elsewhere. He could not shake his mind of two lines. 

_Oh, to become nothing but a wisp barely gracing the ground of this wretched Earth_

_I only wish for a form slipping through the wind_

When Hisoka sets the lyric sheet down, he can feel Illumi’s scowl. If there was any amiability between them, it’s all evaporated. 

“Why are you so intent on staying closed?”

“Oh, you’re asking why I don’t want my vulnerabilities exposed for you to see? I barely know you, and now you are pressuring me to do all this, and, and——“

“Illumi, you’re a stubborn motherfucker. Had you not wanted me to see what you’d written, you would’ve never let me.”

A vein starts throbbing in Illumi’s neck. Hisoka can feel the fire coming off his body in plumes. He buries his face in his hands, the tips of his fingers dipping into his roots. 

Hisoka siddles up closer to Illumi and waits for the model to acknowledge him again. Their thighs are touching. 

Once a couple beats pass, Illumi side-eyes him.

  
  
“What are you on about?”

  
  
Hisoka reaches for the paper again. “This,” he waves the paper in Illumi’s face, “is a call for help.”  
  


Illumi gathers his hair over his shoulder and uses it to shield his face. The pieces hanging in the front flutter up every other second, and Hisoka can hear Illumi’s breaths with acute clarity. 

“I know you wanted me to see this.”

Of course, Illumi would pretend otherwise. He would act as though Hisoka was speaking nonsense and as if his takes were total shit. 

And maybe they were. But some boundaries were meant to be torn down. Normally, this didn’t need to be done, but Hisoka could care less about exercising moderation. 

Thus, the cycle starts again. Hisoka’s clutching onto the shards Illumi lets slip past his barrier, grasping the pieces in his hands and examining each one till a mosaic of his model’s elusive intent was burned into his head. An array of ceramic tiles would encompass the volatility of it all, combatting sunlight yet catching stars. 

Thankfully, Hisoka wouldn’t need to settle for shards. If Illumi refused to ever unlock the floodgates or break down the dam, he’d leave. That would be all. 

Illumi sits on his hands and crosses his ankles. He leans forward and away from Hisoka. 

“You don’t know me.” There’s a quiver in Illumi’s voice, the resonance resembling the whine of a violin.

  
  
“Not well enough. But that’ll come with time.”

  
  
“How can you be so sure?”

  
  
“Because I won’t stop until I figure out what’s eating at you. And I’m more than willing to help. I feel like I’ve made that clear enough.”

  
Hisoka peers down at the lyrics again. The song is titled “Hollow”. And Hisoka’s wondering what Illumi’s referring to, what’s ripped out his humanity and carved him into a shell, because whatever it is, Hisoka would do anything and everything to make him whole again. 

Not many things scare Hisoka, but this devotion is something he hasn’t felt in years. He damn well knows what it leads to. The unavoidable graveyard of dead hopes and penetrating despair was a place he’d never wanted to visit after his last relationship, and because of this, he’s found comfort in fucking and running, fucking and leaving the body he’d used up face down in the sheets and covered in his dried come. 

This was different. Hisoka wants to hate it.

  
  
“Illumi, I just don’t understand why you can’t seem to trust me.” 

“Trust means you can hurt me.”

  
  
Hisoka’s tone goes soft as butter. “I would never do that.. And I get that’s hard to believe based off my words alone, but I like you a lot. I really do. I know it may be hard to comprehend that because you may have been hurt badly in the past, but I——“

Illumi promptly rises from the couch and heads towards the back of his apartment. 

Hisoka’s chest sinks. 

“Where are you going?”

Illumi doesn’t answer him. He only continues down the hall.

  
  
“Illumi!”

  
  
His hair sways behind him, back and forth, much like a pendulum descending down upon a bound criminal, the edges blending into the darkness of a dungeon. It’s an ode to the end, and Hisoka’s about to go after Illumi and drag him back over to the living room. 

Here, Hisoka’s left with no new shards——-and it looked as though he wouldn’t be getting more soon. Every time he’s interacted with Illumi outside of Firestarter, his desire to collect an array of new pieces has been his main goal. The ones he currently had weren’t enough to assemble a persona, not unless this persona was simply withdrawn and falling apart at the seams. 

Illumi is fleshed out well past that rendition. Hisoka pictures how easy it would be to bring him into focus if only Illumi would let him in and study every one of his attributes, examine and sketch the subtleties of his form, much like the way he did those pose studies back in college before he’d dropped out. 

The time he’d shagged the idea of becoming an artist altogether had been the same moment he’d lost his scholarship. Consequently, he’d been kicked out of his dorm too, and in the following months he had grown acquainted with the streets again. 

Deep down, he’d known this was where he’d end up, degree obtained or otherwise. Trying to build a name for yourself in a city big as Seattle meant one was subjecting themselves to a life wavering right above the poverty line, with the sight of their paycheck more relieving than anything they’d ever create.

Alas, Hisoka has to wonder if Illumi’s plummeting into that realm of realization. It could be why he was busting his ass to get continually promoted. 

But he’d never find out at this rate. 

The french doors to the balcony have been left open. A breeze blows in, tousling Hisoka’s hair and bringing the oppressive heat in the rear. His shirt sticks to his chest, and he looks down at the word plastered across it. 

Illumi was one hell of an enigma , though who _was_ he? Moreover, why did he want to know the answer this late in his life——and why did he yearn for it only after his model asked him the same thing?

Labelling himself as a freak was a bandaid hardly covering the incessant questions churning below. It didn’t suffice in the past, and it didn’t suffice now. 

Illumi reaches the door of his bedroom. He grasps the brass knob.

  
  
“Get out of my apartment. I’ve had enough of you.”  
  


\---

Hisoka did not leave. And Illumi did not stay in his room for as long as expected. 

“Why are you still here?”

“I like your company.”

  
  
“This is trespassing.”

  
  
“And you’re going to call the cops?”

“Can you please leave?”

Illumi’s head is poking out the door, and his mouth is coiled in a glower. 

“I want to cheer you up.”

  
  
“You can’t do that.”

  
  
“Hm. Then can I take your mind off what happened out there?”

Illumi rolls his eyes. “God, you are so annoying.”

  
  
“I think you mean charming.”

“Get out.”

“I can’t when you’re all pissy like that.”

  
  
“You’re the reason I’m pissy.” 

Hisoka furrows his brows, considering the way Illumi’s hair falls along his jaw and over his slender shoulders. He tracks the shape of his high forehead, noting how Illumi’s baby hairs splay over it. 

He could work with this. 

“You want bangs, right?”

Illumi steps out of his room and closes the door behind him. “Huh?”

  
  
“I remember you telling me a couple months ago that you wanted them cut. We never got around to it.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

  
  
Hisoka tilts his head to the side. He smirks, and in that second before he answers Illumi’s question, a car races by outside, the weighty sound of its bass shaking the frames on Illumi’s walls. 

“I want to cheer you up.”

  
  
“Well, I don’t want them anymore.”

  
  
“Really?”

  
  
Illumi turns his gaze to the floor. 

“Do you have a pair of shears around here?”

  
  
“I said I don’t want them.”

  
  
Hisoka sets each hand beside Illumi’s head. He shifts all his body weight against the wall, and Illumi actually tries backing away further. 

“I know you’re lying.”

Witnessing Illumi’s skin turn a soft peach pink made Hisoka want to hold him, cradle him, kiss him and comfort him. He didn’t want to scare or annoy Illumi. He just wanted to be there for him, yet that didn’t stop him from pushing his model’s buttons on purpose. 

There’s a disconnect from what he wants and how he is. But reconstructing the guise he’d forged was out of the question. 

Illumi sighs. “You’re so tiring.”

  
  
“Ha! I knew you wanted them cut."

  
  
Illumi flinches at Hisoka’s laugh. As the surprise dissipates, he crinkles his nose.

“Admitting you wanted them all along won’t hurt,” Hisoka leans in and brushes his mouth across the side of Illumi’s jaw, “and I wouldn’t blame you.”

A shudder wracks Illumi’s body. It starts from his shoulders and runs down to his hips. 

“I told you to get out.”

His voice is a harsh tremble, an arrow caught between the belly and tail of a bow drawn backwards. Hisoka pulls away at the sound, careful to keep his distance minimal. 

“Where are the shears?”

Now the arrow has been released from the archer’s hand, propelling itself towards the end of the sprawling field and finding the center of the bale target——and it’s also Illumi who’s grabbing Hisoka by the collar of his shirt, his wide eyes squinted into glistening beads of poison, small chin jutting forward in a defiant manner. Illumi’s features set the stage for retaliation, his hand a hook meant to pull Hisoka in so he could slash him up before flinging him far, far away, lodging feet and yards and miles amid the two of them. 

And this route doesn’t last. A fork crops in the road, and after the archer has released the arrow, its head goes spinning into the giving dirt of the field. 

Finally, Illumi releases his hold on Hisoka. 

His brows come apart, and his mouth opens in a soft ‘o’ shape, and nothing comes out. Hisoka fills in the gaps of what he wants to say, utilizing the shards he’s gleaned off him in the past. 

Illumi rubs his arms, preparing to return to his room. Hisoka removes his hands from the sides of Illumi’s head, but he stops him. He clasps Illumi’s shoulder, and he can feel his skin burning bright underneath. 

“You okay?”

  
  
Illumi swallows hard. “You don’t need to worry about me. Don’t you have more pressing matters to attend to?”

The urge to storm out right then and there transcends any feelings he’s had for Illumi thus far. 

He wouldn’t open up. 

Couldn’t open up. 

And Hisoka couldn’t do a thing about it, especially when he didn’t bother hiding his callous blows. 

“Illumi, I’m choosing to be here. And I don’t think I can help you sort your thoughts if you won’t just fucking tell me what’s wrong. I’m trying to make you feel better and you’re being so goddamn difficult.”

  
  
Illumi holds back a wince, hardly supporting a steady facade. 

“Can we just ignore this? And can you just cut my hair?”

  
  
“Depends on what you define as ignoring. Also, I still don’t know where your fucking shears are.”

  
  
In reply, Illumi beckons him beyond the door separating his bedroom from the rest of the apartment. He has a bathroom adjacent to it. Inside, there are no rugs beneath the sink or the toilet. Nor are there toothbrush stands or ceramic soap holders.

  
  
In the absence of these commodities, there are two worn toothbrushes and a bottle of antibacterial soap. It’s only a quarter full. The light illuminating the room isn’t encased in a frosted glass dome. It isn’t even covered with flimsy square panes the way the fluorescents out front are. No; only a lonesome bulb hangs from above, its yellow light weak and dim. 

Illumi opens the drawer, hands Hisoka a pair of shears, and hops up on the sink. 

As the creak of the counter marks his spot, the castle of glass reconstructs itself in the stretch separating Hisoka and Illumi. The palace is completely see-through, and so are its secrets——but the wrong move could shatter everything. 

Oftentimes it did. The visitors, first apprehensive and eager to examine the mysteries floating about would be met with needles impaling their heads and backs and soft underbellies. 

Long ago, Hisoka thought being civil with authority was difficult, that walking on eggshells of their egos was hard enough to navigate——and how wrong he was to worry about something with such hold. Eggshells were durable in comparison to Illumi’s intricate, brittle palace. 

Hisoka opens and closes the shears, the slim blades snipping at the air. He thinks to himself what length Illumi’s bangs should be before asking him. 

“How do you want your bangs?”

  
  
“Light.”

“Wispy, you mean?”

  
  
“I guess.”

Hisoka brings his face to Illumi’s. His hips are nestled between his small, spread thighs. Only the resin counter separates the lower portion of Hisoka’s abdomen from Illumi’s dick. Clenching his jaw, Hisoka begins drawing thin locks of hair over Illumi’s face. Waterfalls of inky strands provide Illumi with a slight curtain. 

“How long do you want them?” 

“Below my eyebrows.”

  
  
His answer comes out quick and definite . Hisoka’s known he’s wanted this cut for so long, and yet he waited till Hisoka decided it was something _he_ wanted to do first.

  
  
With this in mind, it’s taking everything not to climb up on that counter, rip Illumi’s pants off and blow him till he rasps Hisoka’s name. And Hisoka’s hating how baggy Illumi’s pants are. He hates being left to wander along this avenue of starved, rash desire——he hates how this is the sort of desire that went as fast as it came, because even if he wanted Illumi now, he couldn’t be sure it’d stay that way, no matter if he’d begun to think otherwise.

He could tell himself the man was different, ethereal, oddly captivating——still, he danced around the fact that the notion of a relationship would never cross the realm of fantasy. 

Hisoka begins cutting the silk threads of his model’s hair, bringing himself closer yet. The smell of cigarettes and breath mints shrouds Illumi. Cutting bangs barely took time at all, though Hisoka takes his time snipping at every hair, his gaze switching between the line he cut across Illumi’s forehead and the doe eyes it grazed. 

What he hears next could be a figment of his imagination. But for the sake of his ego, he pretends Illumi’s breaths are turning a bit shallow. He isn’t sure how long he’s spent cutting Illumi’s bangs, but it’s not long enough.

As he snips the last piece of Illumi’s hair, the severed portion floating to the ground, Hisoka steps back. Then he notices Illumi’s knuckles are gripping the counter. 

“Well, turn around.”  
  


The question hangs in the air for much longer than it should, and Illumi doesn’t look like he’s coming to his senses any time soon. Hisoka decides to wrap two hands around Illumi’s waist and lift him off the counter. He comes up much easier than anticipated.

  
  
Then, a flicker reignites inside Illumi, his awareness flooding in a wave. To Hisoka’s surprise, he doesn’t fight against his hold. 

Hisoka had told Illumi to turn around and look at himself in the mirror, but Illumi’s just looking at him now, letting both hands remain wrapped around his tiny waist. His shirt is bunched up around Hisoka’s hands, the hem ending above his hip bones, the porcelain skin beneath horribly unmarked. 

The only reason Hisoka lets go is because he doesn’t know what he’d do if he kept holding on. When he watches Illumi stumble out of his hold and peer into the mirror, he can feel his cock ache. Illumi’s leaning over the counter, and his mouth is pressed into a thin line. He runs a finger through the curtain of his bangs, a crease between his brows. 

“Do you like them?”

Illumi begins to say something, though the words die in his throat. To respond to Hisoka, he nods his head vigorously, hair cascading off his shoulders and sweeping across his round, perky ass. 

Hisoka inhales through his nose and slips both hands in the back pockets of his shorts. 

There was no telling how much longer he’d be able to control himself. He’s got a perfect view of Illumi’s back end; beyond this, his legs are slightly apart, making it all the easier for Hisoka to appreciate the proportional difference of his thighs to his ass. 

“So are you feeling better?”

  
  
“Yes.”

  
  
Illumi jolts at his answer, and he is swift to shake his head.He plays with the stitching of his scarf, eyes darting to the door. He doesn’t face Hisoka when he speaks again. 

“I was fine to begin with, anyway.”

  
  
“Yeah, that’s really convincing.”

  
  
“I know it is.”  
  


Chuckling, Hisoka is the first to depart. He crosses to the living room with Illumi trailing behind. The sight of his guitar reminds him why he’d come in the first place. It takes another second for him to wonder why cutting Illumi’s hair made him forget his initial motives entirely. 

“Should I gather my stuff to go?”  
  


Illumi catches Hisoka’s eyes. His own are blazing.

  
  
“You can stay.” 

The words rush out of Illumi’s mouth, each one a keen blade arcing through the air and frantic to find hold in something that could support its bite.

  
  
“You want to practice more?”

“No.”

  
  
Hisoka frowns.

  
  
“You want to head out somewhere?”

Illumi prepares to nod but stops halfway. Instead, he regards Hisoka’s shirt, eyes fixated on his chest. At some point he gives his shorts and legs a cursory glance. 

“You forget what I had on?”

Illumi sneers. “I will not leave with you dressed like that.”

Under no circumstances could Hisoka bring himself to care about what others thought of him. And it’s not that he cares about what Illumi thinks of him, it’s just that he’s stuck on a train on a path to a foreign land wrought with emotions he’s alienated, emotions that colored flower petals too bright and engulfed residents in suffocating hospitality. He needs to jump out the window and land on his feet before he had to disembark the train and into this candied valley . Yet the new sway of his one-track mind strapped him to his seat and left him to watch the sludgy streets he knew too well peel back. 

“I can stop at my house to change. I’ll be here soon enough.”

Hisoka nearly cringes at his own words. He doesn’t make accommodations for people, and Illumi shouldn’t be any different. However, this doesn’t stop him from gathering his things with haste, nestling his guitar in its gig bag and sliding the zipper over its curving outline.

  
  
Silence drifts over both men. It is a much welcomed visitor. Sometimes there’s no way to dissipate the strain in a room, and so the best course of action tends to be negligence. 

Hisoka shoulders his guitar, regarding Illumi. He’s still staring at Hisoka. Ropes are pulled taut between them, the clashing of their wills spires of ice merging and splitting periodically. Besides the heaps of Oxycontin in Hisoka’s system, he’s feeling a little dizzy. 

“Can I come with you?”

Hisoka wants to ask him to clarify just where he wants to go with him, but he knows. And he could ask anyway just to fluster Illumi further, but he doesn’t want to risk this. 

“Of course.”

***

“All your clothes look too small.”

  
  
“And all of yours look too big.”

  
  
“It is better to have them too big than too small.”

“You think so?”

  
  
Hisoka bends over to pick up an empty beer can. It’s been on the floor of his room for over two months, though now seemed like a prime time to pick it up, what with Illumi perched on the end of his bed, fingers curled around the footboard. Hisoka’s damn well aware that most of his ass is hanging out right now, and so he elongates the process of picking the crushed aluminum off the floor. He is careful not to look over his shoulder, more for Illumi’s sake than his. 

When he rises and tosses the can into a bin near his door, he crosses over to his closet and starts sifting through his clothes.

“Are all of your clothes so bright?”

  
  
“I have a couple dark garments.”

  
  
“Why is there so much latex?”

  
  
“Nothing wrong with latex, I don’t think.”

  
  
“It’s ugly.”

  
  
Hisoka shrugs, pulling out a silk blouse. “Maybe to you.”

“That’s definitely not going to fit you.”

  
  
Hisoka turns around and strips his top off, making eye contact with Illumi all the while. “That’s the whole point.”

Illumi’s brows draw low over his eyes, and he crawls to the edge of the bed. His eyes race across the tattoos covering Hisoka’s torso, gaze riding over the ridges of his muscle. He jabs a finger out to an illustration curling around the side of Hisoka’s rib.

Sensing what Illumi was going to ask, Hisoka turns to offer him a better view. “They’re a series of tarot cards.”

  
  
“That’s weird.”

  
  
“I used to play around with them a lot when I was younger. I still do today.”

  
  
“They do not work.”

  
  
“I don’t know whether they do or not, actually. They offer me a sense of direction, though.”

  
  
“You do not seem like you need to be directed anywhere. You seem sure of where you’re going, even though it is always in some stupid direction.”

Hisoka sets the blouse to the side. He creeps up onto the bed, and Illumi leans back on his hands, making no effort to move. 

“You’d be surprised how little I know.”

  
  
“Not like you’re the sharpest anyway.”

  
  
Illumi mumbles this last sentence. Hisoka grabs him by the chin and directs Illumi’s gaze right into his. 

“What was that?”

“You heard me.”

“Baby, you talk so soft,” Hisoka nudges Illumi onto his back.

“But if you spoke up everyone else could hear your pretty voice.”

“My voice isn’t for everyone.”

“But is it for me?”

  
“Hisoka——“

  
  
Illumi’s lips brush against Hisoka’s as he whispers his name. 

  
“You’re one to ask all these questions,” Hisoka’s on his knees, and as he’s hovering over Illumi like this, a new pressure presses against his navel, “yet you never answer mine.”

Illumi takes a shuddering breath, eyelashes fanning over his cheeks, the shadows cast by them outlining every feature set in his doll-like face. He tries forming a coherent response, but no words crystallize.

“I’m a curious man, Illumi. And I want answers.”

Despite how dark Illumi’s irises are, Hisoka can tell how much his pupils have dialated. They’ve become the all-enveloping maw of a tiger---and plasma coils around every tendon inside the prison of his body, ready to shoot out and tie up Hisoka, dragging the stylist down with the model, dragging the gangster down with the loose cannon. 

And Hisoka, Hisoka was willing.

Hisoka would yield. 

Hisoka wanted this.  
  


  
  
Illumi takes a shuddering breath, eyelashes fanning over his cheeks, the shadows cast by them outlining every feature set in his doll-like face. He tries forming a coherent response, but no words crystallize.

And with his mouth still open, Hisoka brings his own against Illumi’s. 

He kisses him deeply, allowing his hands to move from Illumi’s cheeks to the thicket of his hair. Hisoka nibbles on Illumi’s lower lip and brings his knees tighter around Illumi’s waist. 

For a second, Illumi freezes, making no move to reciprocate the action. Hisoka considers pulling back and untangling the knots he’s begun to form in Illumi’s hair, but the thought spirals off like a wayward kite, because that’s when Illumi arches his back and opens his mouth wider. 

And then he’s kissing him back with slow and staggered motions. But that too dissipates quickly, because soon enough he’s rolling his hips against Hisoka’s abdomen, dick rubbing along the crease between Hisoka’s abs. 

His hands slip under Hisoka’s shorts, cool marble fingers squeezing each cheek, the pads of his thumbs trailing along the edges of his crack, lingering and not wanting to slip out. Hisoka spreads his legs out and widens the crevice even more. 

Illumi doesn’t hesitate to nestle each thumb under, and the motion sends a storm whipping through Hisoka’s stomach and right into his dick. Now, it’s Hisoka who grinds against Illumi, the force of his hips pushing Illumi’s down into the mattress. His hands drift from his hair and under the cotton fabric of his sweater, his touch tracing up each rung of his vertebrae and steadily over delicate ribs before finally hooking into the dip of Illumi’s collarbones. 

The cadence of their kiss quickens further, and Hisoka’s headspace has turned into a pinball machine rattling off a million different hypotheticals. He’s floored at the foot of the door that’s just opened up, and he can’t seem to zone in on any one thing, and the effect of this panoramic reverie is foreign. 

It was one thing to operate off the assumption that Illumi liked him, one thing to arrive at conclusions based on assumptions alone. But to feel his body yielding beneath Hisoka’s own, to feel the tension seeping from his body and leaving loose, springy tendons in its wake was invigorating. Now, Illumi has the sort of vitality found in the cheery youth. He’s left his wired skittishness in the dust, and this version has planted a lotus in Hisoka’s chest. 

Rebirth, rebirthing, new beginnings, a clean slate. It’s everything Hisoka’s been looking for in the wrong places, and now he doesn’t want this to end, doesn’t want to break the kiss and come up for air. Vines splay out and over the two men, first wrapping around Illumi’s throat before snaking out to Hisoka’s. They tighten with time, and here, time is fleeting. The scent of flowers is cloying as well, though only in the manner where a single whiff of its aroma propelled one to stick their nose in the petals and inhale till their world spun.

  
  
And the potency of the scent would have them falling. It was only a matter of time till they hit the grass and were forced to inhale the more grounding scent; so when Hisoka lifts his mouth from Illumi’s, paradise falters and flickers. 

Illumi’s chest heaves, and tears pool at the rims of his eyes. Hisoka’s curls hang over his forehead and tickle the plane of Illumi’s. With every exhale Illumi inhales, and vice versa——-here, they’re one person, one vessel, and they’re both shaking and sweating in equal measure. 

“Please, Hisoka, I——“

  
  
“You what?”

  
  
Illumi never finishes his sentence, but Hisoka doesn’t need him to. The pull is impossible to resist, the gravity of Illumi’s want tangible. Hisoka licks Illumi’s lower lip. Illumi’s hands come out of Hisoka’s shorts and grip the quilt once again.

“Do you want more?”

Upon hearing the question, Illumi immediately raises his hands from the mattress. Hisoka catches a glimpse of the underside of Illumi’s wrists, the skin translucent and shimmering, pale as the moon and just as sublime. He twines his fingers at the base of Hisoka’s neck, pulling him forward. His eyes flutter shut, and his mouth opens gently, small pink lips impossibly plush and pliant. 

This time, when Hisoka presses his mouth to Illumi’s, he bites his lip hard. Then, he slides his tongue inside, his piercing grazing the top of Illumi’s mouth, running over all the lowlands and clefts. He slides it from one side to the other, coating Illumi’s teeth and tongue in a layer of spit. It turns into a cycle, Hisoka pushing down and Illumi pushing back up, and then they’re a raft in the middle of a turbulent ocean with only each other to cling onto. 

And it’s not long before Illumi’s hands drag down Hisoka’s back, nails sinking into his sculpted muscles, pulling him closer and closer. And when Hisoka’s tongue reaches the start of Illumi’s throat, he attempts to spread his own legs out despite being caged amid Hisoka’s thighs.

  
  
The mattress starts creaking with the force of their thrusts, a bystander begging them to stop and reason through the following moments, to stop and reconsider what they were painfully close to doing. 

This thought only leads Hisoka to unbutton the fly of Illumi’s pants. He slides his hand inside and curls it around Illumi’s dick. He’s tempted to break the kiss right then and there and make fun of how hard Illumi was, taunt him for wanting to be fucked this badly. 

But he’s also conscientious that if he broke the kiss, he’d probably blow Illumi without question and swallow all his come. 

So, keeping the notion in mind, he gives Illumi’s dick a slight squeeze. Not even a second passes when Illumi moans against Hisoka’s mouth, the nails in his back drawing blood. Hisoka takes his other hand and uses it to slip Illumi’s shirt up, letting it gather around his neck. He presses the pad of his thumb to the edge of Illumi’s cock, and Illumi moans louder yet. 

Hisoka doesn’t give Illumi time to recuperate when he breaks the kiss. Instead, he brings his mouth to the spot right below Illumi’s ear, and licks it, first gliding his tongue from the tip of his lobe and setting it against the tapering angle of his jaw. He keeps his tongue set to Illumi’s jaw, the bottom edge pressed to silk skin. 

Then he begins nibbling, teeth creating coy indentions. Spit drips off the edge of Hisoka’s tongue and rolls down Illumi’s neck. As it comes to settle in the concavity of Illumi’s chest, he shivers violently.

“Hisoka—“

He says his name like a plea, like it's the only way he’ll get control over the man ripping him apart at the seams. Shame and all its stifling comrades have already toppled off Illumi’s pedestal of priorities. In its wake, he has been left with a man who may as well have been an earnest, wide-eyed prostitute ready to melt further into Hisoka, allowing him to come all over his face till it dripped off his chin and rolled down the side of his long, long neck. 

That thought gets Hisoka sucking harder, the sound full and wet. Now, it’s Illumi’s hands that get tangled in Hisoka’s frizzy hair, small fingers poking out through the tunnels made within each curl. His breaths are ragged pants. 

Cautious to leave his tongue out and dripping, Hisoka continues in a downwards motion. He chuckles into Illumi’s neck, though it sounds more like a staggering pant. 

Illumi’s sliding off his pants with the more hickies Hisoka leaves, and so as Hisoka finishes off his trail, he props himself back up on his palms and stares down at Illumi, absorbing the harsh maroon tint splashing the length of his cheeks, both his lips swollen and a bit bloodied. Also, Illumi’s choker is sodden with spit. 

Hisoka had always wondered how Illumi was able to keep his emotions wrapped tight as a noose around everyone he interacted with. Sometimes Hisoka would see a fissure jut into his dialogue, although he only noticed this because he knew how Illumi looked when he was vulnerable. 

And he was that way every time they interacted. In the beginning, he had been confused——but like a camera coming into focus, the fuzz soon sharpened into crisp angels. 

Still,seeing Illumi in such a raw state hits Hisoka in the gut. It doesn’t stop him from breaking into a grin. He’s never witnessed Illumi in this unabridged state---he’s always cut himself off, rendering his pointed edges sharper yet, worsening the blow of already cutting words. 

And here he is unfurling into a scroll filled with a thousand unexplored landmarks. Hisoka can’t take his eyes off him. 

“Someone’s excited, aren’t they?”

  
  
It comes out before he can stop himself. And then Illumi’s face morphs into its steely set, and he’s sliding his pants back on and pushing Hisoka off him. He doesn’t get far though, because as Hisoka grabs him by the shoulder, Illumi halts. His shoulders loosen under Hisoka’s hold. 

“If you didn’t like that, I won’t do it again. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  
  
Hisoka’s shocked by the tone of his words, but he leaves this for potential consideration later. 

“I have a boyfriend.”

  
  
“Illumi——“

  
  
“I can’t believe I—-I—“

He falls to his knees, palms splayed against the ground, dark tendrils hanging in his face. Hisoka descends beside him. 

“Illumi, _listen to me_.”

  
  
Maybe it’s how he says this next phrase with the tension of a slingshot pulled back, or maybe Illumi’s just tired, just worn out, because seeing how Illumi shuts his mouth and stares at Hisoka with too-shiny eyes doesn’t sit right. It makes his heart squeeze. 

“It’s okay to make mistakes. We all do. I’ve made more than I can count. I get you have a boyfriend and that you knew you shouldn’t do this. And I won’t make another move on you,” Hisoka raises his hands, “I promise.”

“You knew. And I did it anyway.”

Emptiness rings after Illumi finishes his sentence, and this is when his lyrics slide right into place, settling with grisly transparency. 

“I started it. I should take responsibility.”

  
  
Illumi slumps over. “I kissed you back.”

  
  
Hisoka takes Illumi’s hand. “I know that nothing I say will make you feel better, but whenever I’m feeling fucked I smoke. Helps more than talking.”

  
  
Illumi’s fingers close around Hisoka’s. They’re sweating.

“I thought you didn’t like it when I smoked.”

  
  
“Cigarettes.”

  
  
“What do you mean?”

  
  
“I don’t like it when you smoke cigarettes. I smoke weed, Illumi.”

In the midst of this fucked-up rhythm of coming too close and not wanting to let go, of coming too close and getting burned, Hisoka’s almost glad. Because in spite of the previous event, Illumi’s not rushing out, and that’s got to be something.

  
  
“I’ll show you how to roll a blunt and all. But if you’d rather just sit by and not partake, that’s fine too.” Hisoka rises from the floor, taking Illumi up with him. As they prepare to leave the room, they meet each other’s faces for a short moment, and the look exchanged is one Hisoka won’t ever forget. 


	8. CONTROL AND COMPOSURE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because of the amount of plot points I want to cover before I end Hisoka's first POV switch, I've decided to add an extra chapter to his first arc.

“I don’t like the noise that’s making.”

“Has to be done, I’m afraid.”

“You should do it faster.”

“Patience, Illumi. Patience.”

Hisoka’s foyer doesn’t have a couch, or a set of chairs, or a table, or a TV perched on an entertainment center. Rather, there’s a large knitted rug that spans from one end of the room to the other, and it nearly covers the stained carpet beneath. On top of this rug there’s a variety of throw pillows, each purposed differently, some meant to be tossed atop decadent bedding and others meant for sinking into after a long day.

“You should open the windows when we smoke.”

“I never bother.”

  
  
“That’s why it smells so bad in here.”

  
  
“I quite like the smell, actually.”

  
  
As Hisoka finishes grinding up the cannabis, he sets two separate cigar wraps between him and Illumi, dark brown sticks stark against the magenta rug. He reaches in his pocket and draws a blade. Then, he cuts them lengthwise.

“You just carry a knife on you like that?”

  
  
“Illumi, this is a switchblade.”

The following reaction could be due to a number of reasons, and Hisoka finds them all unsettling. In the split second of clarification, Illumi has blocked off the already sparse expression of his features, instead acting as though he knew this and everything else related to self-defense and casual weapons.

  
  
“They’re the same thing.”

  
  
“Not exactly.”

“As far as I am concerned, it is close enough.”

  
  
Hisoka empties out the tobacco onto the carpet. Illumi’s lip curls downwards. 

“Are you not going to clean that up?”

  
  
“It can wait.”

  
  
“That is revolting.”

  
  
“Illumi, is there ever a time you can go without dragging me through the dirt?”

  
  
Illumi shakes his head. “Maybe if you didn’t deserve it, I wouldn’t.”

Hisoka keeps his eyes on Illumi as he spits into his hand and wets both pieces of paper. 

“I’m not smoking that now.”

  
Ignoring him, Hisoka takes to filling each blunt and rolling them up. He tucks each one neatly and smooths out all the wrinkles. He doesn’t hesitate to light one once it’s amid his lips, the meek flame a gateway to what’d be a space to unwind. 

Illumi watches him silently. His arms, once a barrier to protect his heart, slowly come apart to rest at his sides, grip shifting from his forearms to the pillow he sits on. 

“Are you doing okay?”

  
  
Illumi jolts, promptly falling off the pillow. He scrambles back a few steps, clammy feet sinking back in the carpet.

“Yes, I just, well. No, yes. I’m fine.”

“Hope so. If you don’t want to talk about shit, it’s okay.”

Illumi’s brows come apart. He tucks his legs beneath him and sets his hands in his lap, watching the smoke spill out the end of Hisoka’s blunt.

Now, he’s transformed into some sort of stray cat discovering an opened tin of food, legs trembling from days of ongoing starvation. However, he must stay wary and bear his claws lest this blessing is a trap and not overdue respite. 

Hisoka inhales deeply, puffing out smoke right into Illumi’s face. 

“You sure you don’t want to try some?"

Illumi cringes, covering his nose with one hand. Still, in spite of this reaction, his eyes gravitate towards the untouched blunt, an air of indecision shrouding him. All other motions he’s orchestrated thus far stop. His fingers, formerly fidgeting with the yarn of the rug, now get caught in all its different loops, and the twiddling of his toes has halted in a manner not unlike someone getting tazed, muscles going slack as they drop to the ground. 

But as fast as this floats over, everything snaps back into place again, and so Illumi decides to snatch Hisoka’s blunt and take a pull. 

Hisoka’s eyes go wide for a moment. Then he laughs. “You do realize there’s one right there.”

  
  
“I wanted to see if I liked it first.”

  
  
“Well, do you?”

Illumi catches himself in the middle of a nod. What he does now is toss a sheath of hair over his shoulder and obscure his face behind it. 

“You’re really endearing when you do that.”

  
  
“I’m not doing anything.”

  
  
“You’re hiding behind your hair.”

And he’s also retreating into that comfortable little alcove of secrecy, of perceiving with sealed lips and keeping his cards close. It’s a way to scrape by, but it’s no way to live. 

  
“I’m not hiding behind anything. And just so you know, I’m only smoking this because I don’t have my cigarettes on me.”

Hisoka thinks to remind him of the lump he felt in Illumi’s back pocket when he’d been groping him just thirty minutes ago, but he opts to stay quiet. No need to rub salt in a wound. 

With his choice in place, Illumi picks up the blunt. Hisoka flicks his lighter and brings the flame to the end of it. 

For the following fifteen minutes,all is quiet. Clouds plume up into the air, and the click of Hisoka’s switchblade does little to fill the void, though that doesn’t stop him from continuing to flick it in and out. Briefly, he considers fetching his bluetooth speaker to ease the atmosphere, but that’s when Illumi begins to speak. 

“I got promoted.”

  
  
“Heard you did. Congrats.”

  
  
“I’m not where I want to be.”

  
  
“That’s fine. You have to start from somewhere, right?”

“My pace is too slow.”

  
  
“You have all the time in the world.”

  
  
“No, I don’t.”

  
  
“Why not?”

“Because I’m not making money, that’s why. I have a brother to take care of and rent to pay, and all of it..it is just not that easy.”

Like that, Illumi’s palace doors are coming open. Hisoka’s beyond eager to rush inside, to memorize the inlaid pattern of the granite floors and the shape of diamond chandeliers twinkling above, each gem strewn refracting a rainbow of light. He’s hypnotized, he’s enchanted, and he wants more, more, more.

“Does your boyfriend help you out at all?”

  
  
“Financially?”

  
  
“Yeah, but from the way you’re saying that, I’m guessing he doesn’t.”

  
  
Illumi shakes his head. “No, but he’s not obligated to.”

Hisoka makes a face. The way the sentence falls out of Illumi’s mouth lands like a stone in Hisoka’s mind. He marvels at the model’s preconceived standards when it comes to relationships. 

The thought of their kiss surfaces, and the way Illumi hesitated at first makes Hisoka’s hand tremble momentarily. The track of smoke from his blunt grows increasingly twisted. 

He proceeds to think of the way Illumi had given in quickly thereafter, and he also notes how he’d flung himself off Hisoka’s bed when he’d vocalized Illumi’s desperation. 

Hisoka casts a look in the model’s direction. His eyes stay rapt as ever. Now, he must run through the previous track of their conversation to find his spot again, because it was too easy to lose his hold amidst the veering currents of Illumi’s world. 

  
“If you’re struggling with money, he definitely should help you out.”

“I don’t beg.”

  
  
“How is that begging? When you’re in a relationship, you help each other out. Especially when it comes to a romantic one.”

  
  
Illumi falters and falls over his words. “Okay, well, it is not like I’m in dire need or anything.”

Hisoka breathes out a puff of smoke, the weed forcibly slowing his mind down, keeping it back in line with his calm cadence. For the first time, it feels more like a muzzle than anything else. He’s never had trouble steadying his thoughts, never had trouble supporting a linear, consistent cord of reason——-yet now the cord was starting to form tangles within itself, his words on the verge of developing that stutter which was so prominent in Illumi’s speech. 

  
“You just admitted to struggling.”

  
  
“That’s not dire need.”

  
  
“It’s serious enough.” 

“He’s not obliged to——-“

  
  
“But if he loves you and isn’t willing to lend a hand, what’s the point?”

Obsidian meets amber. And then they’re revolving around one another yet again, this universe only containing them both. Here, a wayward prince stumbles upon an entrancing wanderer.

Indeed, they’re stuck to each other in an invisible glue with a bond closer than blood, Illumi’s own passion closer than Hisoka’s jugular; and Hisoka can only hope the feelings are mutual———because what is exchanged between them already transcends the need for speech. To consider the possibility that the devotion didn’t span both ways hurt in a way Hisoka had nearly forgotten via slashes across the arms and splashes of alcohol in an old fogged glass. 

  
Furthermore, he knew that if he _had_ decided to face his feelings head on, this aged pain would descend with the familiarity of a toxic companion weaseling their way back into one’s life, a presence both comforting and suffocating, a wool blanket embracing its wearer before wrapping itself around their neck. 

Illumi rips his gaze from Hisoka’s, eyeing the blunt in his hand. He’s trying to reconstruct his barrier, though it’s hard to create anything substantial from rubble.

  
  
“There are other ways to offer companionship, but….” 

Illumi trails off, and Hisoka’s tempted to push him into finishing his thought——but if there’s anything he’s learned about Illumi, coaxing him was about the worst thing one could do. 

So he takes to waiting. 

Night descends with leisure, and the seeping light of the day crafts long shadows against the wall of Hisoka’s living room, him and his model a pair of ghouls planning on abandoning this purgatory of restrained lovers and instead delving into the world together, gliding among the edges of this sparkling city, surveying all the nastier corners and coming upon camaraderie there. Today, tonight, and forever on, things would change——-and Hisoka had a hunch they’d stay that way for a while. 

“I mean, I do love him, and he isn’t responsible for problems I can solve myself.”

  
  
“That’s not love.”

  
  
Illumi shoots him a wounded look. “And what would you know about love?”

  
  
“More than you give me credit for.” 

Illumi scowls. “I’m sure you can’t even stay faithful to someone.”

  
  
“Half-true. I just don’t like being tied down, and I know it. Unfaithful people don’t know that’s in their nature, not at first. When they do find out they’re the way they are, they just try to ignore it.”

Hisoka lifts his head to study a painting of a naked, weeping woman. He flicks his switchblade a couple more times before continuing. 

“Believe me, I’d know. That’s why I don’t bother hiding the way I am.”

  
  
Illumi leans over a throw pillow, chest against the intricate stitching and elbows digging into the rug. His chin is propped in both palms, hair neatly tucked behind his ears. Hisoka couldn’t recall a time where Illumi had willingly swept his hair out of his face, leaving it open in that bare way. After all, he had been hiding behind it just moments ago.

“Hence your ‘slut’ shirt.”

  
  
“Right.”

  
  
Neither of them guide the conversation further down the path they’ve paved. One thing Hisoka appreciated about Illumi was that he never initiated idle talk, so much so that he never bothered offering greetings or departures, never asked how Hisoka’s day went, never discussed mundane things that didn’t directly affect either of them. If a conversation came to a halt, he would leave it at that until he came up with something else to say. 

At the moment, Hisoka continues regarding Illumi, examining the way his hold on the blunt was loosening periodically, observing how he was sinking further into the pillow.

  
  
“If you ever want to crash at my place or just need someone to talk to, I’m here.”

  
  
Illumi is slow to react, though once he does, a weak smile plays on his lips. 

Hisoka doesn’t think to set his hand on Illumi’s, but he notices the action in a distant manner, like a scientist studying a delicate specimen.

And much like a butterfly coming out of its cocoon, Illumi’s fingers curl around his.

  
  
“Okay.”

  
  
That was about as close to “thank you” as Illumi would ever get. Hisoka tightens his hold on Illumi’s hand. Sensing that a subject change would be ideal, Hisoka speaks again. 

“Do your parents live around here?”

  
  
Illumi’s face darkens. “No. They are back in Oregon.”

  
  
“That’s not too far.”

“Sometimes we visit. Me and Killua.”

  
  
“That’s your brother’s name?”

  
  
Illumi nods. “My parents had been divorced for a while, but my mom had most of the visitation rights. Kil really hated seeing her all the time, and they did not get along, so we went to court and I gained custody over him.”

Hisoka visualizes Illumi coming home to care for his brother and making sure all his needs were met for. The bags beneath his eyes already resemble bruises, and his mane is threaded with the occasional gray hair. After bouncing from house to house as a child, Hisoka knew that look was nearly exclusive to single mothers.

“Did she not care that’d you’d basically be his guardian?”

  
  
“She would’ve thrown him to the dogs if she could.”

  
  
“Wonder how visiting goes.”

Illumi scoffs, and Hisoka’s memorizing the way the air bends around that particular twitch of his vocal cords, ingraining the short surge of noise and the stifled breath to follow, the one that seals the sound and takes it back under. 

It’s not like he’s never heard Illumi scoff, but that warped laugh comes easier now. It is laced with a bit more light. 

  
Hisoka starts rubbing circles along the top of Illumi’s hand, his manicured thumb tracing over prominent veins. 

“Do you have family nearby?”

The question comes from Illumi, and Hisoka is brisk in plucking the consolidated response off a shelf in his head, the answer brief and bordering on terse.

  
  
“I grew up in foster care.”

  
  
“Oh, alright.”

  
  
Illumi peers up at Hisoka through his bangs. They graze the spot just below his brows, making his eyes look bigger than ever. It’s also now that Hisoka catches just how long Illumi’s eyelashes are. A cluster of dark, downy-like hairs extend out along the arch of his lids, framing the eyes that’ve been glimmering ever since Hisoka walked through Illumi’s apartment all those hours ago. 

Lifting his scarf up and over his head, Illumi drives another query Hisoka’s way.

“Why do you have all those scars on your legs and back?”

If asking about his family had elicited a rigid response from Hisoka, then this was the equivalent of setting him ablaze and asking him why he was screaming, why he was thrashing, why his face was contorted in that distorted cloak of pain, the sensation heavy and cumbersome and altogether a reaction Hisoka wasn’t keen on recalling now. Pain was a maiden he typically toyed with in the absence of arousal. Though the sentiments mixed often, there was a divide here that Hisoka had come to appreciate. 

The divide alone was jarring enough. To rekindle memories of Sage and the deal that followed was almost overwhelming.

“You only just noticed?”

  
  
“No, I simply thought now would be a good time to ask.”

  
  
“Illumi, I know you have no regard for the comfort of others. That’s not why you asked me.”

  
  
Illumi shrugs. “I guess I will have to let you..figure out why I asked.”

  
  
He doesn’t smirk, but Hisoka can hear the smile in his voice.

“I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”

  
  
“Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. But I asked you a question.”

  
  
“And how many times have you evaded my own?”

  
  
Though the cables wound around Illumi have gradually been unravelling, this reminder has his chest off the pillow and spine going rod-straight. He slaps on that patch of pointed awareness now, his dreamy aura replaced with the jittery demeanor he supported at work. 

“Illumi, I’d love to answer any of your questions, but that one’s off limits.”

  
  
“Okay.”

It’s an odd game these men play, and the speed is only gathering. 

Hisoka, normally the perpetrator and troublemaker, is taking more steps back than he’d like to consider, reassessing the alteration of Illumi’s vortex, scouting for a pattern, a beat, a legend to decode the cipher governing his actions. He’s a general who, once optimistic and confident of the outcome of his battle, must now retreat upon seeing how the enemy has turned the table of circumstance on its head.

And for all Illumi’s stoicism has to offer, he only decides to uncover this new side now, this side that is equal parts heat and ice, a side confounding enough to evoke headaches when studied extensively———and unfortunately, Hisoka knows that is the only thing that will shut his mind up. 

But he needs time to do so, and he needs space——-alas, Hisoka knows Illumi isn’t willing to offer either of those things. He doesn’t want Hisoka to hide, or to retreat, or to scrutinize his fresh nuances. And because he won’t put up with Hisoka wanting to do this, he forces him out and uses the allure of his appearance to plant Hisoka exactly where he wants him to be. 

“So do you have a boyfriend?”

Illumi lets his chest fall back against the pillow, kicking his shins up from behind and crossing his feet at the ankles. 

  
Hisoka raises his brows. 

“Like I said, I don’t like being tied down.”

“When’s the last time you had one?”

“College.”

Illumi begins twirling a strand of hair.

  
  
“What’d you go to college for?”

  
  
“What’s it look like?”

  
  
Illumi raises his head from one palm and lets his gaze rove over the paintings decorating Hisoka’s walls. 

“You were an artist.”

  
  
“Still am.”

  
  
“Oh. Okay. Your art is…”

  
  
“It’s a lot.”

  
  
Illumi’s eyes stick to a particular painting set right by a window. Messy red streaks form the contour of a weeping woman.

“Is there any meaning behind them?”

  
  
“Sometimes.”

  
  
“Why’d you drop out?”

Again, Hisoka’s at that crossroads where he wants to make Illumi aware of his prodding behavior, though there’s something soothing in basking beneath the almost-warm tonality of Illumi’s questions. It’s as if he’s left all his callous wit behind in favor for this goo-goo eyed alter ego.

After willfully fixing his eyes elsewhere, Hisoka decides to make eye-contact. He nearly forgets what he wants to say, his sentence coming out a few seconds late. 

“I found beauty school had more opportunity.”

  
  
“But you make a nice artist.”

  
  
“That’s the kindest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“You act like I’m mean.”

  
  
“You’re not exactly the nicest, Illumi.”

  
  
Illumi’s brows furrow. “How so?”

  
  
Hisoka pushes a groan down his throat. Illumi isn’t an idiot by any means, though his obliviousness is jarring.

“Promise not to take it personal?”

  
  
“Okay.”

  
  
His approval isn’t convincing, although Hisoka raises a hand nevertheless. He begins ticking off each point with a finger. “First, you have zero regard for other people’s feelings. Second, you never think about the impact your words have. Third, you’re very stand-offish. Fourth, you don’t——“

  
  
Illumi sets his palm against Hisoka’s. He presses it down to the rug.

“Okay, I get it.”

Hisoka smirks, noting the red crawling into Illumi’s eyes. “It baffles me that you weren’t aware of all this.”

  
  
“I guess I just had more important things to worry about.”

  
  
“Like working yourself to death.”

  
  
“I don’t work myself to death.”

  
  
“Okay, Illumi. Okay.”

Illumi rolls off his pillow and crawls towards Hisoka. He sets a hand on his thigh, fingers spreading over his scarred flesh. 

“Does something about my leg interest you?”

Ignoring him, Illumi takes to exploring the serpentine illustrations winding around Hisoka’s form. The few spaces that weren’t inked happened to be covered in freckles, and instead of tracing the drawings, Illumi lifts his hand and runs a finger along the naked portions. 

“You have so many tattoos.”

“I appreciate the enlightenment.” 

Illumi movements remain fluid and sure. At one point, his hand travels up Hisoka’s thigh, and then he’s tugging at the hem of his shorts. When Illumi looks up at Hisoka beneath his bangs, any reaction Hisoka’s planned thus far evaporates. 

“Have I ever told you that you make a good stylist?”

  
  
Hisoka stops himself from gripping the edges of his pillow, and he shoves a shiver down. Beyond the abrupt switch in his demeanor, this whole thing was nothing short of absurd. It wasn’t long ago when he had been the one making Illumi go weak at the knees, had been the one teasing him with open-ended questions and electric caresses. 

And Illumi had wanted him so bad, had yearned for him the way a starving man yearns for a crumb of bread, his response to Hisoka’s lips a starburst of serrated passion. His movements were jerky and had those craggy edges particular to newfound lovers losing their virginity. He had a boyfriend, and yet he had this prudish, self-righteous air about him, an air that hinted at prior romantic encounters being awfully ungenuine. 

He had a boyfriend, and he was the reason Illumi had shot out of Hisoka’s hold———but here he was, touching Hisoka of his own accord, the expression written across his face lax and enamoured.

“Illumi, you’re starting to scare me.”

  
  
Illumi brushes off this statement. “You know, you’re also a good kisser. And——-“

“Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

  
  
Illumi hand continues to drift up Hisoka’s leg. “Yeah, but that’s fine. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Illumi.”

  
  
“Yeah?”

  
  
Hisoka cringes at the way he says this word in an unseen, leisurely breeze. 

“Are you okay?”

In order to free his left hand, Illumi crushes his blunt into Hisoka’s carpet. Hisoka thinks to scold him, but then Illumi pulls his shorts down.

  
  
“Of course I’m fine.”  
  


Illumi doesn’t think twice to lift his sweater over his head——-and for the first time, Hisoka sees his torso in the dying light of the day. Illumi’s clavicle piercings twinkle, and his veins extend over his form like a billion little rivers. The bars of his ribs pull the skin around it tight like the sails on a boat, with his collarbones prominent as a mast head and the jutting shards at his hips subtle as the stern. 

Hisoka’s switchblade falls out of his hand and across the carpet. And he doesn’t realize he’s been biting his lip till he tastes blood. Illumi wipes it off with a thumb and licks it clean. 

Before Hisoka can protest at this action, Illumi pulls his briefs off. His eyes widen momentarily, and a coy smile plays upon his lips. 

“I’m going to blow you, and I won’t stop until you come,” Illumi takes his index finger and slides it down the length of Hisoka’s cock. “And if you don’t, I’ll just have to cut your dick off.”

  
  
This comes out in a whisper, and by now, Hisoka’s terribly hard. He’s still able to manage a chuckle though, holding onto his easy front with slippery, shaking hands, hands that just wanted to shove Illumi’s head down and have his little doll mouth wrap around his cock.

“Bet you’re grateful for that.”

Illumi blinks lavishly, his eyes registering Hisoka’s face.

“Are you ready?”

  
  
“Illumi, I don’t think you know what you’re——-”

  
  
Hisoka never gets to finish his sentence. Rather, Illumi’s lips press around Hisoka’s cock, and he doesn’t hesitate to start up it. Hisoka spreads his legs, toes curling inwards and hands flat against the ground, forearms rickety and unsteady. His cock fills Illumi’s mouth, but he doesn’t hear gagging or choking, not yet. 

Illumi slides down near the bottom, setting his tongue against Hisoka’s slit. He swallows the precome without hesitation, and like that, he’s climbing Hisoka’s dick again. When he reaches the base, the end of his cock tickles the back of Illumi’s throat, and it elicits a thick gurgle and a bout of unspilled tears. 

Hisoka groans. 

And that’s all it takes for him to bring both his hands to grip the sides of Illumi’s head, fingers sinking into his silky hair. 

Illumi starts descending Hisoka’s dick, and his stylist stops him halfway through. Then, he throws his hips forward, pulling up Illumi’s head up to the base of it once more. 

He holds Illumi steady and thrusts his cock back and forth, watching the way pink blotches color Illumi’s face sporadically,his entire body shaking in response from the vigor of Hisoka’s hips. In this position, crouched and quivering and gripping onto Hisoka’s thighs for dear life, Illumi’s looking as fragile as fine china and twice as breakable. 

Spit leaks out of Illumi’s mouth and coats Hisoka’s dick, the sound of his saliva flush and full. Illumi leans his forehead against the skin above Hisoka’s groin, scavenging for mercy in all the wrong areas, and at the faint display of fatigue, Hisoka only quickens his pace. 

Illumi’s hold on Hisoka’s thighs tighten, and tears begin streaming freely down his cheeks. As they drip off his chin and hit the skin of Hisoka’s legs, he moves his hands from Illumi’s hair and sets them on his cheeks, thumbs hooked behind each ear, the rest of his fingers curling under his chin. 

Following this, Hisoka changes the track of his hips from a thrust to a roll, and he drags Illumi with him. Nevermind that his chokes were growing abrasive, nevermind that Hisoka could almost hear Illumi wheeze. Nevermind that his face was turning a deep purple, because he could take more.

He would take more. 

Illumi winces and squeezes his eyes shut. He grabs Hisoka’s hips and halts his rhythm momentarily. He squints up at Hisoka, his eyelids inflamed from tears already shed, and the look in them is more desperate than the plea of a damned man. 

Hisoka feels his cock swell. 

But he pulls it out of his model’s mouth anyway, making sure his hands still cup Illumi’s cheeks. 

At the moment, he’s taking hoarse, rasping breaths. His chest heaves from the lack of air, and his nostrils flare periodically. 

Here, Hisoka can see how faint Illumi has let himself become. He teeters on the brink of unconsciousness, and though Hisoka’s touch is what’s eroding him, he can tell Illumi wouldn’t want to fall any other way. 

Illumi turns his head to the side before hacking. Hisoka frowns. 

“You okay?”

His voice comes out rougher than anticipated. Without looking his way, Illumi offers him a limp nod. 

Hisoka gives Illumi a couple seconds before lifting his face to meet his. He holds it in place, watching how Illumi’s barely keeping himself together. The track of his tears dry to form two fissures sliding into his skin, breaking up his top layer like a spoon being dug into a fresh pint of ice cream. 

Breathing in Illumi’s acrid, stinging sweat, Hisoka brings Illumi’s lips to his, the teeth behind his own gingerly pressing against the model’s. The pressure is a reminder that the wall between them was getting enveloped beneath the moss of this affair, lust blanketing structures obstructing its path before crumbling them in due time. 

Illumi leans into the kiss, fingers undoing the fly of his pants. They slide off with a hushed _swoosh_ , and Illumi breaks the kiss for a moment. 

Hisoka eyes how the front of Illumi’s briefs are wet. Illumi grabs him by the wrist and sets Hisoka’s hand against his dick. 

“Illumi——“

Without responding, Illumi wraps his legs around Hisoka’s hips and forces his hand inside. He begins grinding on Hisoka’s cock, and he sets his lip against Hisoka’s ear. 

“Go on,”

  
  
Illumi’s words come through the way a radio anchor’s reel of lighting-quick sentences sputter through a shitty car speaker, each syllable broken up with dense fuzz, thus leaving its listeners to guess at a meaning they’d never truly uncover. 

Hisoka registers Illumi’s command a couple seconds too late, and it’s because he can’t get over how Illumi’s cock feels in his hand, can’t get over how stiff and hard and swollen it is. 

Illumi starts grinding against Hisoka harder, dick slipping around in Hisoka’s hold. 

“Just,”

  
  
Illumi twines one hand in Hisoka’s hair and bites his lobe.

  
“Start already,”  
  


Hisoka throws his dick up between Illumi’s ass cheeks, the only thing separating their flesh being a thin, sodden piece of fabric.

Illumi lets out a gasp. It’s quiet, but it’s enough to get Hisoka going.

  
  
Hisoka starts by closing his hand tighter around Illumi’s cock. He jerks it up and down Illumi’s dick, thumb fumbling with the end. For a second, Illumi remains frozen in place, biceps flexing as he clings to Hisoka. 

“You still good?”

  
  
Illumi nods before burying his face in Hisoka’s neck. He resumes rocking back and forth. 

“Keep going,” 

Hisoka moans. 

“So is this what you really want, babe?”

Hisoka’s shocked he can even speak, shocked he can craft words with the wasteland his mind has become. 

“No, more. I want more, more——“

  
  
Hisoka nearly yanks on Illumi’s dick, and Illumi bites back a yelp. 

“Better?”

Illumi lets out a groan so soft Hisoka would’ve missed it had he not been listening for a reaction. He twines his cock in Hisoka’s grip, bucking his hips forward. 

“More, more…”

Hisoka chuckles, settling back into his old rhythm, hand running up and down Illumi’s shaft, thumb fiddling with the edge. 

“Anything for you,”

Sighing, Illumi pulls Hisoka further into him, and though his legs are wrapped around Hisoka’s waist, he’s able to spread his ass cheeks wide, wide apart. 

In turn, Hisoka is able to nestle his cock further up his cheeks. Shortly, Illumi closes the space up again. 

Hisoka proceeds to twist his dick around, the push of his it causing Illumi’s briefs to bunch up in his crack.

“Fuck,” Illumi breathes. 

“I think I might ruin your underwear, Illu,”

  
  
“I don’t...I…”

  
  
“Care?”

Illumi tries finishing off his thought , but that’s when his dick starts leaking. Hisoka gives it another squeeze, and then———

“Hisoka!”

Illumi’s cry is threaded with the urgency of an individual fleeing a massacre that’s erupted just down the street, the sound of gunshots still too close, the scent of blood sharp and acrid and coppery. 

“Are you gonna come, baby?”

  
  
_Because I am, and I don’t think I’ll be able to stop myself this time._

Illumi shakes his head vehemently, hair whipping around his face. 

“No, no, no——-“

“You can’t help it?”

  
  
Hisoka is careful to keep his voice feathery, gentle, caring. 

“I won’t judge you if you can’t help yourself,”

“I can..control——“

  
  
“Control isn’t everything——-“  
  


Illumi lets out a sob. “I can..I can..”

His entire face is beet red now, and sweat runs down his face in thick rivulets. His teeth are clamped in a snarl, and only whistling breaths escape. His Adam’s apple bobs every time Hisoka wrings his cock, and Hisoka’s wishing Illumi was swallowing down his come instead of a scream. 

  
“Let it out, it’s okay——-“

  
  
“ _No!”_

  
But like that, it’s shooting out against Illumi’s will. The fluid is quick to coat Hisoka’s fingers, portions of it seeping beneath his nails. It’s been a long time since Hisoka’s felt this lucky to have his hand covered in come, and so he wants to examine it, study how it encases each of his fingers, worship the liquid as if it contains otherworldly properties. 

It takes a second for Hisoka to realize he’s pulled his hand out of Illumi’s underwear. He looks into Illumi’s eyes, and he grins. For a moment, Illumi is confused. 

Confounded. 

Blissfully unaware. 

But as Hisoka brings the come coated hand to his mouth, comprehension drowns Illumi, and he begins to beg, his irises surrounded by a ring of cracked, red lines . 

“Hisoka, no, don’t, please——-“

  
  
But Hisoka draws his tongue out and drags it along one finger. The pressure sets his piercing a little further into his tongue.

When Illumi tries looking away, Hisoka grabs him by the jaw and keeps his gaze in place. As the first drop of Illumi’s jizz goes down his throat, he speaks. 

“I love the taste of you,”

  
  
Tears well into Illumi’s eyes. “Hisoka, please——-”

“And I want you to watch as I savor every bit of you.”

  
  
Hisoka pulls his face close enough to where their noses brush against each other. 

“I don’t think you know how crazy you’re driving me,” Hisoka chuckles, the air escaping causing Illumi’s hair to flutter, “but I always thought that was so sexy. That obliviousness.”

Illumi closes his eyes, brows drawing tight, too tight, the crease between them so deep Hisoka thought it painful to look at. 

“Hisoka, I’m gonna——-“

  
  
“You’re gonna what?”

  
  
Illumi says nothing. Hisoka takes it upon himself to fill in the blanks. Letting go of Illumi’s jaw, Hisoka slips a hand back into Illumi’s briefs. 

“Are my words alone enough to make you come? Is that it?”

  
  
Illumi burrows his face into Hisoka’s neck once more.

“No, no, they’re...no...”

  
  
Hisoka works at Illumi’s dick, hand bolting up and down it. He strokes Illumi’s back as he does this, and he sighs into his hair, “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay to let go. To relax. It’s——-“

  
  
Shooting out of Illumi’s dick. Hisoka had been playing with his cock for a minute at most, and here he was, coming all over his other hand, the fluid dripping beneath all the metal rings adorning his left hand, seeping then under the gold watch on his wrist, the same watch he had bought after Sage, the brand new one he’d nicked from one of Seattle’s finest jewelry shops, with its twinkling ruby face and patent leather strap——-was now doused entirely in Illumi’s load.

Hisoka pulls out his hand much faster than before, and without warning, he pushes Illumi onto his back.

“It’s my turn now. Here you are, coming all over my nice watch, and I haven’t had a chance to do it on you.”

“Please, don’t——-“

  
  
Hisoka swings both legs over his waist, straddling him. 

“You’re not fighting out of my hold.”

  
  
Hisoka leans down before Illumi’s face, smiling.

  
  
“Just admit you want this.”

Illumi grapples at something to hold onto, although he is only able to find the yarn loops of Hisoka’s rug. His eyes are shut tight again.

  
  
“You know, maybe it’s better to keep your eyes closed,”

Hisoka siddles further up Illumi’s torso, angling his dick right over his doll’s face

“Because once I’m done, you’ll be dripping all over.”

Illumi whimpers. 

“Is there something wrong?”

  
  
Hisoka runs a hand down Illumi’s chest, and he leaves a trail of come in his wake. 

“Illumi, I’m asking you a question.”

  
  
Illumi convulses. “No, no, just don’t stop, please——”

  
  
“Whatever you want, it’s whatever you want,”

As Hisoka takes a hold of his dick, he starts jerking off onto Illumi’s face. 

The come exits in hurried streaks, and as the warm, wet sensation builds, Illumi begins repeating Hisoka’s name the way he did when they were kissing on his bed, saying it like a chant, saying his name as if he were afraid to forget it, afraid that if he didn’t keep it in his mouth, he’d disappear into thin air.

  
  
Hisoka moans at the thought———or maybe he’s moaning at how his come coats Illumi’s face, Illumi’s mesmerizing, glittering face , that same face that was plastered on all those LED-lit billboards across the city, worshiped and coveted by fierce agents and power-hungry companies. 

Alas, none of that mattered. Not here——-because here, Hisoka had as much control over Illumi as he wanted, and there wasn’t a damned thing Illumi could do about it. 

And here, Illumi didn’t seem to care. He was too caught up in keeping Hisoka on him, keeping Hisoka present.

  
  
“You keep saying my name like I’ll disappear,” Hisoka takes a deep breath, welding the mush of his thoughts into a mold that resembles coherency, “but I’m not going anywhere, so long as you’re under me.”

  
  
When the last syllable is articulated, the last bit of Hisoka’s jizz exits with it. 

For a beat, an inkling of awareness gleams in Illumi’s eyes, a feeble ray of light shining out above the abyss they’ve dug themselves into, a haze of reason setting into his features———but as Hisoka slides off him, his eyes suddenly fall shut, what short-lived understanding now sliding alongside his dreams. 

And so it goes that Hisoka’s left alone in his apartment, with Illumi unconscious and dripping in his come, a once-pristine vessel now ruined and corrupted with his touch. 

Countless nights have ended this way, but somehow, Hisoka’s desire has only become a blinding thing, the edges of it ready to singe away the scant remnants of his sanity. 


	9. KNEEL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s going to be intense gore in this chapter.

Hisoka is sick of being hungry. And he is sick of having to wait around for satiation. 

He’s been pacing for the past twenty minutes, his footsteps silent against the hardwood floors, and the hilt of his dagger is slick with sweat. If he can’t figure out a way to kill them soon, that means he’ll have to retreat, and he can’t afford to do that. Not with Nobunaga’s business right around the corner. 

Hisoka reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. After unlocking it, he opens up his last conversation with Machi. 

_Machi: So I just stay positioned on the balcony right above his if you need help?_

_Hisoka: I won’t need it._

_Machi: Don't get so cocky._

_Hisoka: I will need you to make sure Paku’s outside the complex by 11 though. Tell her to bring the bundle of green files. I have her payment and everything too._

He’s been left on read ever since. Beyond the obvious shortcomings this presents him with, it also gives him all the more incentive to veer off the path of their plans. They’ve defined them well, and the nuances have been looked over enough times that both parties could recite the steps backwards on command. 

Machi’s read his text and ignored it though, which meant she hadn’t thought it important to fully hold up her end of the deal⸺so who says he has to do the same?

Hisoka looks to the queen-sized bed. The two men continue dozing away, and the occasional shift fills the room with a gentle rustle. 

Again, Hisoka finds himself in the far right corner of the room. He looks down at the piles of ropes, gags and handcuffs. He doesn’t know why anyone should have that many BDSM related objects in their home, but he also doesn’t think Shalnark or Feitan are the type to be reasonable about their spending.

He’s grateful for it, though. Because with the new half-baked plan in his head, Hisoka knows he isn’t going to get far without a stroke of luck. Tonight, all he’s brought is a dagger, a canvas, and a bundle of brushes. Only one of these objects will carry him through the night, and not without a healthy dose of nerve. 

Leaning down on one knee, Hisoka sheathes his blade and pockets it. Then, he picks up a rope and two handcuffs. He considers grabbing a pair of gags too, but he ultimately decides against it. He’s going to want to hear them scream.

As he pads over to Feitan’s side of the bed, he cocks his head to the side and watches him sleep. He looks like a child. When he sleeps, all the wrinkles slide off his face, and his small mouth hangs half-open, a runnel of drool dripping off his thin lower lip. Hisoka almost wants to wipe the spit off the side of his face⸺but not before smashing it into a runny, pulp-filled tomato, with bits of bone poking through his skin like dainty little seeds.

And so that’s how it all begins. 

Before Feitan’s even aware he’s restrained, Hisoka’s already snapped a pair of handcuffs around his wrists. When the cool metal comes into contact with his skin, however, his eyes fly open and his mouth curls into a snarl.

For a brief moment, there is a look of bald terror⸺and if Hisoka could snap a picture in that shutter of time, cherishing the look that Feitan’s crumpled his face, he would. Hell, he’d jerk off to it before bed every night for the next month if he’d caught a picture in that second.

So it’s a shame the look is now smothered with a pair of glaring eyes and flaring nostrils. Feitan doesn’t hesitate to swing off the bed and charge at Hisoka, hands behind his back and hair falling across his face.

  
  
In turn, Hisoka is scurrying backward, and before his back meets the wall, he sidesteps Feitan like a matador just riling up a bull. Feitan is barely able to keep himself from crashing into the wall.  
  


“Perhaps it wasn’t the best choice to wear socks for this, huh?”

  
  
Feitan whirls around, stumbles, rights his footing, and charges again. But this time, Hisoka catches him by the collar. Hisoka peers down at him and grins. 

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?!”

  
  
Hisoka brings a finger to his lips. “Shhh, I think you might wake up⸺”

  
  
But the creak of the mattress has already sounded, and Shalnark’s voice follows, the edges made hoarse from sleep. 

“Fei, what⸺ _oh gracious!_ ”

  
  
Feitan swiftly drives a knee between Hisoka’s legs, and suddenly it’s taking everything for him not to buckle. Distantly, he registers Feitan scuttling over to Shalnark, and then he hears him throwing out orders.

  
  
“My knife, my knife!”

A zipper is undone. Pockets are rummaged through. 

“No, not there, dumbass!”  


Shalnark spits out a litany of apologies, and his search grows faster, more frantic. 

“Hurry up⸺oh it is here, here, here⸺”

  
  
The hiss of a knife leaving its case sounds, and then the two men are bickering. 

“Fei, you can’t use it, you’re handcuffed⸺”

“Just give it to me alread⸺”

  
  
“No!”

  
  
“Do you want to die or not?!”

  
  
“I can handle this fine, please be reasonable Fei⸺”

  
  
“ _Just give me the motherfucking knife!”_

Hisoka takes a breath, hauls himself up, and runs back towards Feitan and a now knife-wielding Shalnark. He kicks Feitan in the backs of his knees and sends him to the ground, but as the barrier between him and Shalnark meets the wood floors, Shalnark brings the weapon to his throat. 

“Wh-what are you doing in our house?!”

  
  
Hisoka leans into the knife, and an erection kindles in his dick. Feitan stays stuck in his spot. 

“I only wanted to pay you guys a visit. We’re on friendly terms, right?”

  
  
Shalnark cringes. His brows fall low over earnest eyes, and Hisoka almost feels bad for him. It’s obvious he didn’t want to join a gang, didn’t want to kill and traffick and steal and rape. No; and the youthful glow in his face only tells Hisoka he’s never gone hungry, never has been nearly beat to death. He didn’t join the Vipers because he needed money and protection and a family. 

He did it because he was bored. Tired of living with everything accessible to his fingertips. 

_Death makes us feel alive. Go figure._

Hisoka tips a bit further into the knife. Blood wells up nice and slow, sliding down his throat and between the crevice of his chest, his abs, and the hollow of his navel. The track stops at his waist. Then, the rest of the blood simply seeps into Hisoka’s denim jeans. 

“Can I ask you a question, Shalnark?”

  
  
“I don’t want to have to kill you.” 

“Who said you’d have to?”

Hisoka brings a hand to Shalnark’s chin. He tilts his head up, and Shalnark’s bangs part in the middle, receding back to his temples. 

He swallows hard. “Hisoka, you’re not giving me much of a choice. Please don’t make me do this.”

  
  
“How am I any different than all those people you’ve killed in the past?”

  
  
Shalnark opens his mouth to answer, but at that moment Feitan tackles Hisoka. He hits the hardwood with a crack, and then Feitan’s got a knee in the crease of Hisoka’s spine and a pair of hands around his throat. 

Hisoka has the nerve to let out a laugh, although it’s strangled. It comes out as a staggered, stifled sound. Then⸺perhaps from the lack of air⸺things go black for a moment.

A blissful veil descends over too-sharp consciousness, and Hisoka wishes he could linger between this world and his own delusions. There’s a hush that follows his laugh, and he’s hoping it’s because his victims are shocked. The possibility remains that he’s simply not registering things clearly. His senses are getting fuzzy, and he doesn’t dislike the feeling. 

He can’t deny his desire to fall back and into the down-feather dreamworld, because things were becoming too easy to shirk off with Feitan’s cool hands around his throat. And it’s not that he can’t fight back. It’s just that, for a moment, he almost doesn’t want to. 

But whims don’t rule his actions. Not entirely. 

Therefore, Hisoka takes to clasping Feitan’s thighs, rolling over, and pinning the man beneath him. Now, Feitan’s hands have fallen away from his throat, and Hisoka can feel how Feitan’s breath leeches from his body the way air whistles out a punctured tire. 

Hisoka comes close enough to where he can smell the stale toothpaste on the man’s breath. He tightens his hold around Feitan’s throat, pushing the pads of both thumbs into the front of his windpipe. 

Hisoka rolls his hips a bit, the erection in his cock growing. Feitan’s chest heaves against the ground quicker, and his temples twitch. 

Deja vu rolls over⸺and Hisoka is transported back to his time at Reef Orphanage. The blur misting over Feitan’s eyes is like the flash that scorched through him when he’d first felt cock slip in. His cheek had been pressed to a brick wall and his bangs had shielded his periphery. His pants were pulled down just enough to get the job done. And once his friend had finished with him, he’d gone through the effort to slip Hisoka’s pants up and wash his face for him.

Beyond Feitan’s expression, it’s the quiet that really does it for Hisoka. Because after he’d ‘done his friend a favor’, he never really thought of it as anything more. Like his friend said, it was just a favor, and even if he didn’t enjoy it, he wouldn’t let himself view it as anything else. He’d done loads of things he didn’t enjoy for others, so how was this any different? 

Besides, this sort of shit didn’t happen to boys⸺and even if it did, friends weren’t the ones who did it to each other. 

Hisoka’s overwhelmed with Feitan’s silence and his shakes. He knows the feeling too well, and it’s as if there are two movies playing through his mind. If he wasn’t the one with the power to pull out here, he doesn’t know where he’d be.

Hisoka freezes for a beat. 

“Can you feel that?”

He’s claiming a new brand of power, and seeing the way it’s rattled Feitan, it’s got him debating whether this is as good as murder.

  
  
Feitan cringes, and Hisoka bends closer to his ear. As he licks it, Feitan quells a shudder."You⸺”

“I what?”

Silence. Hisoka’s lips brush Feitan’s ear.

  
  
“What was that again?”

Before he replies, Hisoka raises his head and resumes his movements. He presses his cock down into Feitan’s abdomen, and he tightens his thighs around his waist. Hisoka realizes that each of his thighs are considerably wider than Feitan’s entire torso, and a shock of delight zips through his veins. Hisoka starts grinding harder against the man.

“You didn’t answer my question, darling.”

At that, Feitan’s face sours considerably, his milky skin curdling. Hisoka hears a series of footsteps from the far corner of the room. He snaps his gaze up, surveys the scene, and reverts his attention to Feitan. 

Removing one hand from the side of Feitan’s throat, Hisoka angles his elbow above the flank of his neck, and drives it downwards. 

Feitan’s head snaps to one side, and he hacks out blood. Hisoka removes his other hand and carries out the same motion, and this earns another snap, another hack. 

Unfortunately, Hisoka has no time to absorb the flavor of Feitan’s reaction, because Shalnark is approaching with speedy, sure steps. 

Hisoka reaches in his pocket, draws out the other pair of handcuffs, and rolls off Feitan. He draws them up above his head, and before snapping them over Feitan’s twiggy ankles, he can only pray that they’ll fit. 

The cuffs whiz through the air, metal hissing and cutting through the layers of sweat and mold that hang in the air. As the circles snap shut around Feitan’s ankles, Hisoka is reminded of a shark clamping down on the flank of its prey, serrated teeth sinking through succulent flesh; Feitan jerks his legs upwards as the cuffs click shut.

When Hisoka jumps to his feet to face Shalnark, he pulls the rope from his other pocket. He makes no move to dodge Shalnark’s attack, and so he’s entangled in this flurry of contradiction, with one end urging him to race towards Shalnark and engage with him head on⸺but the other one tells him to remain rooted and let the man’s momentum gather. 

Hisoka opts for the latter. 

Shalnark shoves Hisoka up against a wall, blond brows pulled together. His desperation to appear threatening makes Hisoka want to laugh. 

However, it also makes Hisoka pity him⸺because all it does is further prove that this sort of life was never for him. Indeed, it truly drives home that he’d hopped into this hurricane of hasty robberies and explosive drive-bys, slipping between death’s persistent grabs, brushing up against cool marble fingers and coming out the other end with frazzled reflexes and a tingle that continued to chill him to the bone, a feeling he’d never be able to shake off. 

It was a feeling the rest of the Vipers had long grown accustomed to. Shalnark, on the other hand, had to acclimate to that bitter, frigid sensation, what with being the golden-retriever rich boy he was. 

But at least he was trying to hide that, trying to blend in with the rest of his roughed-up partners. He’d seen enough things that’d drive him to tears, and yet he’d swallowed them back, blinking rapidly so he could dry his eyes and continue running along with the Vipers. Maybe that was commendable. 

Shalnark squares his shoulders and clears his throat. 

“Uncuff him!”

  
  
Hisoka grins. “Do you think I’m just going to listen to your orders like that?”

  
  
“I can kill you, I’ve killed people before⸺”

  
  
“And you’ve had more than one chance to kill me already. You’re a smart man, Shalnark. I’ve asked this question once before, but I’ll ask it again. Really, what’s⸺”

  
  
“Nothing’s stopping me!”

  
  
Shalnark clenches his jaw. Hisoka sees the muscles in the side of his face tense up. His breaths sound shallow, ragged, and frantic. 

In turn, Hisoka takes a deep breath, and he drops the rope. 

“So pull the blade across my throat.”

“I have questions, first.”

Shalnark presses the blade further into Hisoka’s throat, and he cuts open another wound across Hisoka’s pale, freckled neck.

  
  
“And if you don’t answer my questions⸺”

  
  
“You’ll turn me in to the big bad cops? Is that what you’ll do?”

  
  
Shalnark’s frown deepens.

“Wait, wait,” Hisoka holds up a hand. “Maybe you’ll kill me.”

  
  
Hisoka widens his eyes as he says this, and he fakes a shiver. 

“S-stop mocking me.”

“I’ve hurt that pretty pearl ego of yours, haven’t I?”  
  


And it is here that Shalnark stills. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, bangs swishing across the plane of his forehead. What he says next comes out in a tremble. 

“Just answer my questions.”

“Shalnark, Shalnark,” Hisoka raises a hand to his chin, and he brushes the gentle cleft,“do you think I’m afraid of death?”  
  


Hisoka’s hand glides down to the base of Shalnark’s neck, and he curls his fingers into the man’s shirt. He draws him closer, and the sting of steel follows.

  
  
“Can I guess what they are first? I think I have a pretty good idea.”

  
  
Feitan writhes in the back, the jangle of cuffs marking his struggle. Shalnark looks over his shoulder, his gaze snagging on his lover for a bit too long⸺and when he turns to face Hisoka, there’s a newfound fire in his eyes. 

“No, you can’t.”

  
  
“That’s no fun.”

  
  
Shalnark bristles, and his words slash through Hisoka. “Why’d you break into our house? And why did you attack Feitan? And⸺”

“There we go. I like this version of you.”

Shalnark tears his knife away for a moment, and his lips drag into a sneer. But when he sees that Hisoka’s free, he’s quick to set the knife back to his throat.

  
  
“What’d you say?!”

  
  
“You’re always so boring, so vanilla. Does it ever get tiring being that way? Does this feral part of yourself not awaken a thrill at all?”

  
  
Shalnark’s eyes go wide, and then they bulge, and then Hisoka swears he sees them begin to twitch. A thick, acidic cackle bubbles up in his chest. 

Instead of laughing though, Hisoka winds this moment between his hands, simply observing the way Shalnark’s chasing after composure, the green in his eyes darkening as the clouds outside ride over the moon⸺when they float out of the moon’s way, however, Shalnark’s eyes remain dark. Hisoka allows his grip to tighten around the silk neckline of Shalnark’s shirt until the sweat from his palms soaks through it. Shalnark cringes and scrunches his nose; and in that fleeting second, Hisoka takes his chance and drives a knee into Shalnark’s stomach.

Shalnark’s hand falls away from Hisoka’s throat, and he’s tumbling backwards, falling falling falling with the icy realization that things were going to slip into an alley bleaker than he could’ve ever imagined. 

To stop him from making contact against the floor, Hisoka grabs Shalnark’s blade wielding wrist and sets it against his own throat. Hisoka’s in a position akin to a dancer holding his partner right over the floor, his hand stuck to the small of their back, the future of their number stretching before them, the seconds tranquil yet taut, serene yet tense. 

And when things careen back into a flurry of moves, the dance commences with an almost numbing normality, and Hisoka’s mind falls into a comforting mode of autopilot. 

The color drains out of Shalnark’s face, and his mouth thins till both his lips disappear. Here, there is a moist, glistening fear in his eyes, and the sweat blooming beneath his arms smells peppery and rank. The blotches themselves resemble a pair of withered carnations. Hisoka sighs and squeezes Shalnark’s wrist. 

  
“Well, isn’t this sad!”

Sad is also what Hisoka’s used to, except his brand is more reckless than pathetic.

Indeed, he’s too accustomed to spinning, to running, to jumping from one dilemma to the next, toeing lines and pushing boundaries and hardly escaping with the skin on his back. 

And in the span of a few years, he’s gone from lowly artesian to shrewd maverick. Now, it is time to climb from a rough-knuckled revolutionary to a decked out pharoah, precious metals and jewels slicing through the prying eyes of envy. 

Hisoka twists Shalnark’s wrist until he hears a soft crack. It’s not enough to break bone, though. 

  
Still, Shalnark grimaces until his eyes are nothing more than slivers, and Hisoka can almost hear the sobs he’s holding behind clenched teeth. He’s jittering like a drug addict riding a paralyzing high, shuddering like a sentenced prisoner who’s just witnessed the first shock of electricity whip through their body. The poor man is trying to cower, to shrivel in on himself, to disappear into folds of mercy and quietude⸺but he’s failing miserably.

  
  
“Don’t kill me, don’t kill me, please, please⸺”

“Shut the fuck up. I’ll do what I want.”

Hisoka nearly growls his next sentence.

  
  
“If you protest, I won’t hesitate to snap your wrist.”

  
  
Shalnark inhales, puffs up his chest, and holds that out for as long as possible.

The room seems to expand with his shimmery, faint ego. If it were tangible, it would resemble gossamer⸺pretty enough to fascinate one, but not strong enough to withhold the coming scrutiny. Not strong enough to withstand a billion hands reaching out to fumble with it and examine every candy-floss thread.

“I’m not..I’m not afraid of you or your threats.”

  
  
Hisoka purses his lips .“Weren’t you just begging for your life?”

In no time, Shalnark deflates, and the air surges out of his chest. Dread clicks into all the hollow places his pride had poorly filled. 

“What do you want?” His voice is a tepid rasp, and his words putter out like an exhausted motor. Hisoka rubs circles along the flank of Shalnark’s neck, his acrylics leaving subtle, dull scratch marks.

  
  
“I want you to tell me everything you know about the casino on the Terrace.”

Shalnark blinks hard, and though he’s already got a knife to his throat, he inclines towards Hisoka, ears pricked high.

  
  
“You⸺you mean the Tangerine?”

  
  
“Sure. Just tell me everything. Where⸺”

  
“What makes you think I know anything about it?”

There’s a flare to his words; they’ve got that tell-tale swell that’ll only mount to a roar. Perhaps if he’d been a bit less insistent about coming off as composed and strong and assertive, he wouldn’t be so occupied with upholding a persona so unlike him. 

But that’s the thing about Shalnark. He was never himself⸺like Hisoka, he adapts to whoever he speaks to, shifting the mold of his ideals in order to get along with others⸺or in order to gain the advantage in a situation. 

Yet unlike Hisoka, he lacks tact and genuine confidence. There’s nothing under his guise, and so not many fall for it.

  
  
“Don’t play dumb with me, Shalnark. I know your Grandpa owns the place.”

  
  
“How⸺”

  
  
“Remember the times Nobunaga used to take us out on those beautiful brunch meetings so we could bond?”

  
  
“I’m not following.”

  
  
Hisoka shoves his finger into Shalnark’s neck. He whimpers as it finds a tendon, and his chest stutters. Hisoka weighs the cost of telling Shalnark he’d watched the man input the passcode to his phone enough times to where unlocking it was effortless. He’d also thought about telling Shalnark he’s snooped through all the Vipers’ phones, and so he’s also stumbled onto the text messages between Shal and his grandfather, but Hisoka’s never liked having to spoon-feed others. 

“God, you’re so fucking stupid.”

“It’s not my fault, you’re not explaining anything, and how am I supposed⸺”

  
  
Hisoka shoves the blade below Shalnark’s jaw, burying it deep, then deeper, and the blood that rises shines like a variety of polished rubies. 

Tears spring up at the corners of his eyes, and he’s panting, pleading.“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ll tell you everything, just please don’t kill me⸺”

  
  
“Hm. I almost wish there was more fight in you,” Hisoka muses. He considers lowering his knife and ripping his acrylic out the side of Shalnark’s neck, merely to give him a head start on all this, or mostly so he can milk out a few more thrills⸺the most interesting thought though, the one that tickles him real well, is the notion that maybe, just maybe, he wants to show the retriever a little mercy. 

But who is he kidding? Mercy could kiss his ass for all he cares.

  
  
“Nevermind,” He juts in, and Hisoka hears the squelch of his nail wriggling in Shalnark’s neck. “This whole begging act works well in my favor. So I guess I’ll take it.”

Shalnark strains the unaffected tendons in his neck, pulling them tight, and it looks like there’s a bundle of straight-rod branches pushing through his skin, fighting to break through to the surface.

  
  
Feitan grunts, the sound of metal scraping against the wood rough and scratchy. His chains jangle in time with the panicked spluttering of his limbs. His movements never fail to start out with a powerful thrust, a robust lurch; but they are always cut halfway and stamped into nothing, quelling the potential for him to scamper towards Hisoka and tear his throat out like a feral beast. 

Hisoka glances back at Feitan and snickers. 

“Struggling isn’t going to get you out of your bonds, darling!”

  
  
Shalnark’s lower lip wobbles. Hisoka’s attention reels back to him, and he feels as though he’s been deprived of something mouth-watering. Something terribly enticing.

But that seemed to be the overarching theme of tonight. Here, Hisoka was galloping towards the finish line, anticipating the blood-laced delicacies that lay beyond⸺yet as he grew unbearably close to the flag snapping between the twiggy, rickety poles, he was tugged away by the volatile hook of circumstance. 

It’s taking everything to keep his impulses encased within the vault beneath his sternum. He could unleash it all now, get things done at a whiplash, jackfuck pace, but he must keep foresight near the top of his priorities. 

Shalnark takes another steadying breath. Nevertheless, he sounds strangled. 

“Why are you doing this? Why are you like this? You seemed nice enough when we used to get stuff done together, and we could depend on you.” Shalnark looks into Hisoka’s eyes, and he whispers, “you don’t have to do this. Please.”

  
  
“If it wasn’t for the information you have, I would’ve killed you already. So shut the fuck up, will you?”

  
  
Shalnark steels his shoulders. He’s attempting to build a fortress of faded stone, housing his true nature and presenting stoicism instead. 

“Anyway. What I really want to know is where the safe is. The rest I can figure out.”

  
  
Shalnark is starting to do the whole head shaking thing again, acting as if that’s going to spare him from Hisoka’s demands. 

Hisoka rolls his eyes, and he rips a nail from the side of Shalnark’s throat. Blood starts cascading down the curving slope of it, pooling in the hollows of his collarbones and the tops of his shoulders. Hisoka decides to dip a finger in the little dip of Shalnark’s collarbone. Afterwards, he smears the man’s face with the blood, careful to color in eyelids and the subtle bulge of his bowed lips.  
  


Shalnark tries looking away, and he’s piling the stones quicker now.

“Hisoka, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into⸺"

  
  
“I know exactly what I’m getting myself into, actually. And your incompetence isn’t doing you any favors.”

  
  
Hisoka drives the blade in a bit more. A short yelp escapes Shalnark , and then information starts spilling out, and Hisoka’s brain is doing cartwheels and somersaults to keep up.

“Okay, so you know how there’s like, six floors? There’s the ground floor, which is where the bulk of the machines are, and after that there’s the main floor, which is where you like, pay to get in, and then you also have the⸺”

  
  
“I’m not going to remember all that.”

  
  
“Then what do you want me to do?!”

  
  
“Uh-uh-uh,” Hisoka wags a finger at him. “Don’t get smart. If I shove this knife a little deeper, do you think I’m going to seriously injure you?”

  
  
A tear rolls down Shalnark’s cheek. And the golden tint in his face flickers out. 

“I kind of want to find out, honestly. But I’m going to need you to stay coherent.”

  
  
Hisoka doesn’t bother watching Shalnark’s response. Rather, he scours the room for a pad and pen. “Could you draw out the layout of the casino?”

  
  
“Could you take me to my office?”

  
  
Hisoka twirls Shalnark around and wraps his other hand around the man’s throat. He ushers him out and says “You’re going to have to show me where it is.”

  
  
Shalnark swallows hard. “Alright.”

Hisoka pads through the master bedroom, and he extends the distance between him and Shalnark. He tightens his grip on Shalnark’s throat to make up for it. 

He lets out a dry, chapped cough. Hisoka has taken to staring at his ass, and that cough has belted his thoughts into a scenario where Shalnark has a knife lodged in his chest, the hilt sticking out like a poorly fashioned door knob. And with the door knob scratching against the bed’s side panel, he’s picturing Shalnark choking on his dick, both sounds disgusting, and harmonious. 

Alongside his chokes, Hisoka imagines blood gushing out of Shalnark's chest at a brisk, sensual speed, the fluid gathering beneath their shaking, buzzed bodies in a chunky, clot-filled lake. 

When Hisoka would decide he’s done, that the sex has gotten boring, he’d tear that knife from the dividing crater of his chest, blowing out a mediocre commodity. 

“Okay, go straight.”

Hisoka jolts. Shalnark angles a short glance over his shoulder. 

“Keep your eyes in front of you.”

  
  
Shalnark obliges, and he stumbles his way through the corridor, his previously light feet turned clunky and awkward. Hisoka settles for Shalnark’s painstaking pace, and he takes to studying the spotty, cracked walls. Most of the damage displayed on them are covered though, because there’s barely an empty spot.

  
  
Posters of plastic-looking pop stars are plastered along every corner and every bend. Lolitas fill the areas where there aren’t posters of people with shiny orange legs and white-blond hair. 

Hisoka wants to laugh, to cackle till the neighbors hear and then debate on whether to check on the odd, off-beat couple next door. But somehow, he cannot even bring himself to chuckle. 

“Turn right.”  
  


On these walls, there is a clashing of wills. Where Shalnark yearns to be accepted by others and is constantly renovating that facade of squeaky-clean perfection, Feitan wants quite the opposite. He just wants to be able to indulge in sickening fantasies, wants to be left alone for abandoning the most basic levels of decency. 

“Left.”

Shalnark’s willing to bust his ass just so he stays on that wobbly pedestal of approval. He doesn’t want to be alone, and his desperation has driven everyone away, save for Feitan.

  
  
Indeed, Feitan accepts him because he’s in the same boat, be it for different reasons⸺and it seems like Shalnark’s not sure Feitan actually loves him, or that he’ll keep loving him. And so he’s become Feitan’s Ken doll, and he isn’t even sure that’s enough. 

Hisoka has been aware of this dynamic long before he came to visit today, and he isn’t keen on acknowledging why he’s so well-acquainted with it. He shoves Shalnark further, urging him to pick up speed. 

Once they arrive at the beaten oak door to his office, Hisoka asks where he can find a piece of paper and a pen. He retrieves them for Shalnark before shoving his head a couple inches above the desk, a couple inches too close for comfort. 

“Get to drawing, you fuck.”

Shalnark picks up the pen with a quivering hand and begins sketching out the different floors of the casino, adding little details and lines that clarify what they are. 

“You make quite the artist.”

  
  
Shalnark continues drawing in silence. Hisoka digs his acrylics into Shalnark’s throat. 

“Are you not going to thank me?”

  
  
Shalnark clasps his pen till his knuckles turn white. He thanks Hisoka.

  
  
“There we go, there we go.”

  
  
The sound of the pen against the printer paper sends Hisoka’s mind reeling. Now, he’s thinking of all those times he’s spent in Nobunaga’s Dry Cleaning place. He’s thinking of those mint-green walls and pristine white tiles. He’s picturing five cups lined around the edges of a plastic fold out table, and he’s thinking of how sex and murder have always been two sides of the same coin for him. 

Creation and destruction. Of course, they’re connected through contradiction , and every time Hisoka kills someone, he can’t help but want to fuck them relentlessly, can’t do anything other than biting back his want to stick it in as blood rushes out. 

It doesn’t matter who it is, as it happens often enough to where the victim in question doesn’t matter. Problem here is that fucking Shalnark has taken up even more space in his mind than usual, and he can’t figure out why. He hates the man, and he’s always hated him. Holding his neck and delaying his slaughter takes more restraint than he wants to admit. 

Hisoka looms over Shalnark’s shoulder, checking on the paper. He smiles at the result. Letting a hand fall from Shalnark’s neck, Hisoka instead uses it to fold the map and stick it in his pocket. 

“Let’s get on back to the bedroom.”

  
  
“Are we⸺are you happy?”

  
  
“Not entirely.”

“Hisoka, please, please⸺”

  
  
“How many times do I have to tell you to shut the fuck up?”

  
  
Hisoka slaps him with his free hand, and then he shoves him out the office and down the length of the hall. As they reach the entrance to the master bedroom, Hisoka slows to a stroll, and Shalnark’s pace is altered as well. 

Inside, Feitan lays at the base of the bed’s footboard, and both his ankles and wrists have been rubbed raw. Blood drips onto the floor, two shallow puddles reflecting the cracked, spotted ceiling above the three of them. 

Hisoka grins. And he proceeds to fall to one knee, with Shalnark still positioned in front of him.

  
  
“Are you hurt, baby?”

  
  
Feitan spits at Shalnark’s knees.

“Oh, don’t soil your floors like that. This place is a dump as it is.” 

Feitan’s eyes slip up to meet Hisoka. The heat in his eyes reminds Hisoka of a dirt-faced refugee clutching onto consciousness. He’s looking for one last scrap of bravery, anything to hold his gaze up to his all-powerful enemy.  
  


“You are going….to pay...for this..”

  
  
“I wonder when that’ll happen?”

  
  
Feitan growls.

Hisoka presses his dick to Shalnark’s ass.

  
  
“I think you should be made aware that I don’t really want to let go of your toy.”

  
  
Feitan thrusts his whole body forward, and he quivers like a beached eel. The jangle of his cuffs sound again, and just for good measure, Hisoka edges back with Shalnark. Then, he begins grinding against Shalnark’s ass, and his hand drifts to his crotch. His fingers curl around it. 

Shalnark whimpers. And when his chest hitches, Hisoka feels the pent up sobs finally ooze out of him, gooey and thick with sorrow. 

“Pretty boy’s tried so hard to stay strong and stoic, but he’s lost anyway. What was the point in trying to begin with?”

  
  
Shalnark says nothing. 

“Shalnark, I’ve asked you a question,” he sets his nose in the man’s hair, “for someone so obsessed with acceptance…”

  
  
Hisoka licks a few blond strands, and his cock rises higher. 

“With validation,”  
  


Hisoka has to pause for a few seconds to catch his composure. He carries on soon enough.

  
“You sure need to work on your manners.”

  
  
Hisoka rips Shalnark’s shorts off, and Feitan lurches forward once more. Hisoka shimmies back further, and then he lifts his hand from Shalnark’s groin to rest atop the length of his dick. 

“I see we’re not wearing anything underneath.”

He traces his fingers back and forth, mouth salivating, tongue flitting across his plush lips. 

“Can you tell me why this is?”

Shalnark starts wailing. He’s saying something, though it’s a mishmash of shredded consonants and vowels, and Hisoka can’t understand any of it. He tsks, and he looks to Feitan. 

As his eyes land on the small man, his whole form begins shaking, and Hisoka’s not sure if it’s from anger or exertion. He’s willing to bet it’s from both. 

“Hey, Fei, are you afraid I’m going to fuck Shal?”

  
  
“I will rip your eyes out and shove them down your throat, and then I will⸺”

  
  
“That’s fucking hot. Making me even harder than I already am.”

  
  
“You know the difference between you and me?”

  
  
“There are too many.”

“Well, sure. But that’s not what I was looking for,” Hisoka squeezes Shalnark’s dick, and he gasps a fresh sob. Hisoka raises his voice to be heard. 

“Our biggest difference is that only one of us speaks empty threats.”

Hisoka stops grinding abruptly. And without leaving Feitan space to comprehend his words, he lowers the dagger to Shalnark’s jugular, the dense _thump-thump-thump_ of his pulse strong as the booming bass in a club⸺and when Hisoka drags the blade across, he’s torn between witnessing Feitan’s expression or the blood that shoots out Shalnark’s throat.

He settles for the latter. 

The clot-filled fountain surges forward like a hose turned too high, and Shalnark’s chokes are chunky and gooey and splendid.

And then when Shalnark’s body has gone completely slack and Hisoka feels like he’s propping up a sack of potatoes, he lets the man crash to the floor and faceplant into his own blood. 

Feitan screams something in his native language, and his face goes horribly pale. For the first time in the nine years Hisoka’s known Feitan, he sees he man begin to cry. His voice is raspy and strangled; his tears are the type that force themselves out whether one wants them to come out or not. They’re tears that may as well be considered instinctual⸺and for someone as blunt and primitive as Feitan, he remains disturbed with surrendering to this impulse. 

As Feitan’s grief crackles and snaps, Hisoka’s eyes travel between his face, his body, and Shalnark’s corpse. He’s watching a fireworks show, and he doesn’t want to miss any spot for too long. Therefore, his eyes stay on that smooth, incessant track, roving over marvels of his own doing. 

By the time Feitan’s movements have slowed and his threats have degenerated into quiet, wracking sobs, Hisoka crawls towards him. He’s trembling all over, and he looks like a beetle flipped onto its back, legs wriggling about the air, antennae waving feverishly. 

“How are we feeling?”

  
  
He asks this like a surgeon checking up on their patient following a surgery, and this time, Feitan doesn’t respond because he thinks himself above it. No; the reason he doesn’t respond is because he’s unable. Feitan wouldn’t make a point to ignore him, not when he’d just butchered Shalnark. That’s just not how Feitan expressed his hatred. 

Anyway, Hisoka runs a hand through his hair and he returns to running his mouth. 

“I thought about raping Shalnark. Once he was dead, of course.”

  
  
Feitan chokes out more tears. 

“They’re always more pliant when they’re dead. Consent isn’t an issue.”

“That should get you hard,” Feitan lifts his head off the ground, and his eyes are puffy and red. “Don’t be like that. Just because your husband’s gone doesn’t mean you can’t still beat your cock.”

_Answer me, you fuckwad. Answer me or else I’ll have to force one out of you._

“I’m only trying to lighten the mood, ease your grief. Solidarity is important during trying times. And, see, you can still enjoy yourself⸺I’m willing to take you out in the hall and let you ogle all those lolita posters as I fuck Shal’s face. That would be a good time, wouldn’t⸺”

“Kill me, I do not care. What you want, you will get, but karma will serve you. Shalnark gave me something to stay living...and you took this away…”

  
  
Hisoka prepares a response, but Feitan hasn’t finished talking.

“You know, we know about your new toy. He is a model, right?”

Suddenly, Hisoka can’t breathe, and then he discovers that he’s plunging a knife into Feitan’s chest, burying it till the blade sticks out the other side. Hisoka’s hand stays clasped around the hilt, even after Feitan’s blood has splattered his face and the vitality has drained out his body. 

They knew. They had discovered a way to find out, and Hisoka doesn’t even know who ‘they’ entails. And instead of torturing the information out of Feitan, he’d killed him on the spot. He’d surrendered to the itches he’s tried so hard to swallow this whole night. He thought he was over giving in to his excitement. He’d convinced himself he had enough experience that he wouldn’t have to worry about restraint. 

And here he is. 

In the end, is he really any different from Shalnark or Feitan? He’d been cognizant of the risk he ran by taking Illumi to his place all those weeks ago. He’d known that his apartment was one of the least safe places he could be at any given time, and he had given into desire. It seems that want always corrodes. Either you destroy it, or it destroys you. 

Now, Hisoka may not be the only one in danger. For some reason, this bothers him, and he doesn’t want to venture down that road. 

In the distance, Hisoka hears the sound of laughter and music. He tilts his head and listens in, taking deep breaths and reassessing his situation. He knows what he has to do, and he knows what he wants to do. The night is young, and it is subject to change. 

\---

Hisoka’s paint brushes are old, but they work well enough. He’s hoping the blood won’t dry up before he’s finished painting. In all the years he’s killed and painted his prizes to hang up on his wall, that’s never happened. And he’s not willing to let it happen now, especially not when killing Shal and Fei is the key to his success. 

Hisoka takes a brush and dips it into the pool under Shalnark’s head. The bristles fill quickly, and then Hisoka’s creating strokes and curves and hard, cutting lines. He’s not really sure what he’s drawing. All he does know is that whatever comes out is definitely going on his wall. He’s already got enough sub-par paintings filling the corners of his closet, and he’s not looking to add another piece to the pile. 

Hisoka looks to Shalnark, and then to Feitan. He remembers the day he’d first met them both. It had happened nine years ago, though the memory remains crystal clear in his mind. He’d gone to meet with Nobunaga a couple hours before, and then he’d been told they would meet at a bar for drinks later that night. 

There, he met the rest of the gang. Up until now, he’s been the last member to join, and he’s always been the least trusted. 

At the bar, they spoke of icy topics⸺meaning that they were light and conversational, with certain answers giving way to deeper convictions. By that point, Hisoka was able to recognize how he ought to have responded to the five-way interrogation. He knew how to spin his words over all the glacial faultlines. 

  
In fact, he found it fun. Creating a new version of himself provided him with endless amusement; because he didn’t have a stagnant temperament to begin with, constantly creating one made him feel like God. 

Killing others made him feel like God, too. And so these things coincided with one another, twin threads that nauseated others with the speed they intertwined at. Deceit and aggression, manipulation and murder. If Hisoka couldn’t figure out who he was, he knew he had those things. 

When he’d been with the Vipers, those traits had worked in his favor. He’d already been made aware of the fragility of life and how revoking it was a necessity. Every time he’d blown a head off or sex trafficked a child, he’d felt a little stronger. A little more real. He’s never stopped being a mirage, but mirages could be powerful, mesmerizing things.

Hisoka dips his brush in more of Shalnark’s blood and continues painting. His knife’s sharp enough to carry through with the rest of his plan, although he’s not really sure he’ll feel up to it once he’s finished his painting. The thought of cutting open both men seems tiring right now, and he’s already got disposal to worry about. 

Hisoka’s ears prick, and he halts the motion of his brush. The scratch of it against canvas is abrasive. When the noise is shut, he hears his phone ring. Removing it from his pocket, he is careful not to get blood on the screen. Hisoka is not going to answer⸺he only wants to see who could be calling him at this hour.

Upon glancing at the screen, a weight falls through his stomach, and he shoves his phone away. 

_We know about your new toy._

What could he possibly want at this hour? And why would Illumi call him?

While they’ve been growing closer over these last few months, most of their interactions have stayed confined within Firestarter. Their conversations through text were dry and stilted, and Illumi usually left him on read. 

So to call him was strange enough. To do so at this hour only made matters worse. 

_What you want, you will get, but karma will serve you._

Hisoka waits for the phone to stop ringing. As he picks up his brush, however, he hears something else. A couple seconds pass before he’s able to discern the faint drone of a news anchor from the living room. He rubs the back of his neck, recalling the way he’d come through the house. Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure if there had been other things running as he’d slipped through the back window. He was too focused on concealing himself to really care.  
  
Though in this frame of time, he needs something to keep his mind off Illumi. He’s too used to tuning out the process of painting for that to be much help. 

Therefore, Hisoka sets his brush down again, and he leaves the room. His boots squeak in a pool of blood as he leaves. Winding through the small, moldy halls, Hisoka comes upon the foyer shortly. There, he sees a dark haired reporter speaking in a curt way. It takes a few seconds for him to pick up on the pattern of her speech. 

“⸺there have been a plethora of incidents that the Seattle Police Department has picked up on, with one of them being the fire out on Prich Avenue. Beyond this, there are other felonies that point to potential gang activity. The Seattle Police Department has been hard at work to⸺”

  
  
Hisoka tunes the rest of her garble out. 

Potential gang activity. She speaks of this as if it’s nothing more than a theory, a far-off antagonist to blame for Seattle’s rising crime rate. 

And she’s implying there’s only one to worry about. 

It’s funny that she mentions the fire on Prich and has been told to link it to some form of organized crime⸺because nothing about that was organized. It was all born from Hisoka’s terms, and it’s more than a slim possibility that they’re looking into the Troupe now. Or looking _for_ them. 

One gang. One group to reign over all the others. Hisoka can laugh at what she’s implying, at the narrow, weak ray of her findings⸺or of the findings of her superiors. Her higher-ups. Whoever’s behind the flow of this information, Hisoka’s hoping they’ll be continents away from hitting their mark. 

He’s going to fuck it all up soon enough. His lax antics are enough to throw them off-kilter. Really, he has to wonder just how they’ll react when he reconstructs the Vipers from the ground up, tearing Seattle from the inside out. 

Hisoka refocuses his ears back to the strings of her sentences. Nothing notable is mentioned; therefore, he looks for the TV remote and, upon finding it, shuts her up. 

The silence crashes in quicker than anticipated, but Hisoka welcomes it. He stands in the living room, honing himself to think of things he can control. Illumi’s become a weasel in his mind over time, although that doesn’t mean it’s impossible to get rid of him, even if temporarily. Hisoka has too much to worry about, and he’s arguably more vulnerable than he’s ever been before. It was the price he paid for unlocking that vault of prowess. 

Hisoka takes one last look at the news anchor; then, he sets the remote on the coffee table, and he begins back. Once he’s seated between both bloated, gray corpses, Hisoka carries on with his art. 

It’s not long before he begins humming.

He settles back into his rhythm, painting without a picture in mind, letting his hand drag itself across the canvas. After he’s been doing this for a while, he withdraws his brush and looks at what’s been painted. 

There’s someone kneeling in what looks like the boxy structure of a guillotine. The person pictured has long, flowing hair, although their face is obscured. The blade is on its way down, whizzing through the air, and the victim’s got a pair of flames in each palm. It looks like they’re burning their way through the wooden board confining them⸺but it’s unclear if they’ll be able to escape the blade. In this hitch of time, anything goes. 

Hisoka grins. And the fatigue seeps out of him. 

One gang. One group to reign over all the others. 

It’s a new beginning, one where Hisoka doesn’t have to bend himself to accommodate others. He’s lived that way for long enough, and now he’s the one who’ll toy with others as if they're nothing more than a set of dead-eyed puppets, the singular shine in their plastic eyes kindled through Hisoka’s charisma.

Hisoka grabs his knife again. And he also reaches out towards Shalnark, one hand closing around his neck, two fingers nestling in the gash of his throat. It’s still wet as ever, and Hisoka’s tempted to just stick his fingers in deeper and play within his lush, squishy insides. 

Sighing, Hisoka removes his hand, and he eyes Shalnark’s bare, creamy thighs for a moment. Then he angles his legs apart before bringing the knife to his anus. He’s able to cut through the flesh like butter, and briefly Hisoka considers what he’d taste like. If he’d be tender or not. 

He hasn’t had dinner tonight⸺not yet, for that matter. 

As the gash widens, Hisoka shoves his hand inside with a _scrunch!_ , and he feels for the colon. His hand closes around it, and the ropey organ is stiff, cold, and fat. Hisoka proceeds to pull it out the way a miner hacks at dull, jagged rocks. His motions are reminiscent of that barbaric effort. Shalnark’s body jerks as every indention of his colon is drawn out. Also, his ass slips around in the mush of shit beneath him. 

When Hisoka’s worked through removing his small intestines, he takes to cutting open Shalnark’s chest. He cuts through thin skin and scant muscle, throwing off half-severed ribbons to the side. As he slashes away, the scent of decay grows more cloying. 

In the monotony of the task, he thinks of Illumi again. Images of long dark hair and deep eyes scorch through his retinas, and Hisoka’s rushing through gutting Shalnark’s colon just so he’ll have something else to focus on. He’s careful not to let his hand come into contact with the porridge of Shalnark’s shit. 

Finally, the last portion comes out, and Hisoka lets go of his knife, rolling out his shoulders. After, he raises both hands a bit above Shalnark’s body, and he curls his fingers around the bars of his ribs. Each of Hisoka’s fingers settle between an individual opening, and his fingertips sink a little into Shalnark’s wet organs. 

He doesn’t wait a second to try prying the wings of his ribcage apart. His biceps strain with force, and he finds himself cringing and clenching his jaw and breathing out through his mouth. 

Hisoka pulls again, and he’s channeling every atom of effort, of want, and of greed through his arms and into Shalnark. In the progression of his action, there’s a gap where Hisoka’s stuck in the same position of pulling ribs apart just enough to elicit that _p-p-pop_ sound⸺but it’s not enough to dislodge this last sort of protection, this last pointless comfort. 

And it’s also not enough to keep Illumi off his mind, because every time he’s stuck in that position where he’s straining like so, his thoughts are sailing off to seek solace in hopeless places. 

_No. He’s not hopeless. I won’t let it come to that._

Hisoka’s hands slip a bit, and he grunts. Once he regains his grip, he tears Shalnark’s ribs with vigor. Again, he’s caught in that purgatory where his muscles are still straining and the wings are on a quiver of resistance, their last and only time they’re going to be forcibly spread out. 

“Fucking hell,”

  
  
Hisoka’s biceps remain in that quivering limbo, and instead of backing down from fatigue or frustration, he pulls until Shalnark’s ribs come apart with a serrated, mangled _crrrrrack!_. Bone tears through filets of meat, and the wings fall open on both sides.

Inside, Shalnark’s organs are shiny and deep in color. They almost remind Hisoka of varnished wood, except where clean-cut edges should be, there is only the oblong bun of a stomach, the sodden loaf of a liver, and the lean licorice wire of his esophagus. There’s so much more to marvel, though Hisoka’s focused his eyes onto one thing. 

Shalnark’s heart is small but flush, the curves near the top tapering off like the hips on a well-fed woman. Capillaries splinter across the surface like bolts of lightning, and the tubes of Shalnark’s aorta stand stark and tall in spite of the ruin. 

Upon studying that prideful structure, Hisoka takes to cutting the reins tying Shalnark’s heart to his body,dislodging the engine that kept him going far past his expiration date. 

Hisoka continues hacking away at cold veins and stiff ligaments⸺with each connection severed, the heat in his stomach rises, and the planes of his face fold further and further into delirium.

However, he must remain grounded. If it weren’t for the smell, Hisoka would let himself wander and linger and play around with both corpses. Unfortunately, the stench from both bodies has gotten worse as the night has worn on. He can’t postpone disposing of them for much longer. 

Hisoka groans at this notion, though as Shalnark’s heart is excavated with a rubbery twang, his mood instantly improves. Holding the organ up in the moonlight, Hisoka begins rubbing the heart all over his body. 

The blood streaks his large muscles, and it stains his already soiled clothes. In the midst of Shalnark and Feitan’s decay, Hisoka’s delusions grow greater and greater, and when he’s covered himself from head to toe in messy streaks of blood, one last desire surfaces. 

Hisoka turns to Shalnark's intestines. And he thinks of the golden-retriever rich-boy he once was, and he also thinks of his own story, of how he’s going to transcend from a rough-knuckled revolutionary to a decked-out pharoah, and he takes those intestines, those twin feather boas, and he ties it round till Shalnark looks like he’s getting choked from luxury. 

Alas, Hisoka is returning him to that state he was born into, the naive rich boy he’s tried so hard to erase and overwrite. Hisoka is the one with the final say, and he’s glad to expose Shalnark for the imposter he is.

***

“And so you’ve made it.”

Nobunaga’s voice is soft and quiet. It doesn’t sound rough or hoarse the way it usually does. However, it has a misplaced, resonant quality, because Hisoka has barged just past the threshold when he hears Nobu’s words. 

  
As he turns into the foyer, he finds Nobunaga seated on a wooden chair. The army green jacket hanging over his shoulders is bulky and cumbersome. He’s playing with the flap of one pocket as he looks into Hisoka’s eyes. In turn, Hisoka cracks his knuckles and slips both hands in his back pockets. 

“That I have.”

  
  
Nobunaga’s gaze trails from Hisoka’s face to his bare stance. He frowns. “I was expecting you.”

  
  
Hisoka looks around. “Is there a place I can sit?”

  
  
“You’re not welcome to.” 

“Am I not a guest you were expecting?”

  
  
“Just because I was expecting you doesn’t make you a guest.”

  
  
Hisoka makes a pouty face. “With all I’ve done for you, I think⸺”

  
  
“I think the fact that you’re here to kill me stamps that all out.”

  
  
The temperature seems to drop in the room, though the pressure only mounts. It’s quiet enough to where the soft whoosh of Nobu’s dishwasher can be heard. Hisoka wonders what he’s had for his last meal. 

Indeed, Hisoka had seen this all coming. He didn’t really expect Machi to stay quiet about this, not with someone like Nobunaga. She loved the man more than she had any right to, and Hisoka knew that overrode any threat he’d proposed back on Prich. 

However, that didn’t stop him from forging on anyway⸺if anything, it only hardened his resolve and ignited the itch for a dagger nestled within his palm, for brass knuckles to rest atop the crest of his hands. 

Hisoka checks his watch. Then, he looks out on the balcony Machi’s supposed to be perched on.

“If I could’ve avoided doing this, I would’ve.”

  
  
“Your lies aren’t convincing.”

  
  
He doesn’t need them to be. Surely Nobunaga must know that. Hisoka’s worked alongside him for years, and he’s seen the way Hisoka gets when he’s permitted to slit a throat or drive a bullet through a skull. These words are nothing more than a courtesy. Something to ease Nobunaga for what’s to come⸺ and his reactions also stimulate Hisoka’s appetite.  
  


Right now, Hisoka’s just killing two birds with one stone. That’s all. 

“I don’t need my words to be convincing. I’m not here to persuade you.”

  
  
Nobunaga slides his hand into an inner pocket. His hand traces over something long and obscured.“Hisoka, can I ask you something?”

  
  
Hisoka strolls till he’s a few paces away from Nobu. “Go right ahead.”  
  


“Why do you want this?”

  
  
“Is that the only question that you’ve got? Considering that you won’t be around to ask any more soon, I think you should mull over your query more,” Hisoka removes his hands from his pockets, and he spreads them out in front of him. “Here. I’m giving you another chance.”

  
  
“You don’t know what power does to people.”

  
  
“So you _do_ know why I want to do this!”

“Hisoka, there’s still time to take a step back. I don’t want to have to fight you.”

It’s grim it has to be that way though. Ramsesses III of Egypt hadn’t expected to be slain by his own people⸺he was a _pharaoh_ , for fucks sake. His people worshipped the ground he walked on, and heaps of offerings were sacrificed to him on the daily.

  
  
However, that didn’t stop a band of lowly traitors from infiltrating his palace and mortally wounding him. In the end, there had been cobras hidden within the sand dunes, and so it’d been peasants that had toppled the throne once and for all. 

Hisoka doesn’t need Nobunaga to understand why he’s doing this⸺he simply needs him to comply, to submit, to obey. His rule is over, and his persistence is only making things harder. 

“I’ve thought about this for long enough. And I was hoping you’d be able to glean that I think before I act. I’ve reigned in my excitement well enough for that.”

  
  
Nobunaga raises a brow. Hisoka presses on. 

“The truth is, you don’t know how to run a gang. You’ve got a good enough personality to get everyone to like you, but that comes with being agreeable, being lukewarm. Only reason your jurisdiction holds any weight is because it’s earned us benefits in the past.”  
  


Hisoka takes another step forward.

  
  
“But we both know it’s been a while since we’ve really had any more gains. And after we’ve stolen enough money and sway to keep us afloat, you’re suddenly cautious to pursue more.”

  
  
“And I’m cautious for all the right reasons. If we pursue more shit now, we could get ourselves busted. You’ve seen the news lately, and you’ve seen the way the Troupe⸺”

  
  
“At some point, the Troupe may’ve been our problem⸺but it’s always been _your_ problem⸺” Hisoka jabs a finger at Nobunaga. His breathing has grown fast and labored. He doesn’t bother trying to steady it. “If you’d taken more risks right after we’d gained notoriety, they would’ve never been an issue to begin with. Now, you see what they’re after. You’ve heard the rumors.”

  
  
“If they become a threat, we’ll figure out how to deal with them.”

  
  
“Will we? You can barely orchestrate robberies. Last time we looted a place, you⸺”

  
  
“No need to remind me.” Nobu snaps. 

Nobunaga could only act so kind. Like Shalnark, he’s too caught up in slapping on a specific persona. He’d taken the time to think through how he wanted to present himself, so falling into this act came easy⸺but that didn’t mean effort wasn’t involved. This warm, fatherly figure isn’t him⸺and it never was. 

Hisoka has hit the bramble which proved that. He’s the scraggly branch that’s torn Nobunaga’s toga off⸺and now his skeleton’s out for show, lily-white bone reflecting the sunlight. There is no muscle or skin to pad him if he falls, and his confidence will be shaken soon enough. 

“I don’t want to think about dealing with the Troupe when you’re our leader. And I shouldn’t have to imagine that⸺with you, what are we to do?”

  
  
Nobunaga sets his jaw. “Not everything requires violence. We could’ve worked something out, but then again, I guess you just like having any excuse to shed blood.”

  
The last phrase comes out in a snarl, and Hisoka can see the gray grime lining Nobu’s teeth.

  
  
“Stop trying to act like a fucking diplomat. ‘Worked something out’⸺all of our meetings always end with the moves you want to make. You pretend to take other’s opinions into account, but when it comes time to take action, you only listen to yourself.”

  
  
“When you put it like that, I have to wonder if you’re really present at our meetings.”

  
“They aren’t even meetings. They’re echo chambers.”

  
  
“You could’ve brought this up to me and⸺”

  
  
“No, I really couldn’t have. Like I said, we’re not politicians⸺so don’t pretend like we are. Talking shit out isn’t how we deal with matters like this. There’s only one way to settle this, and it’s time you quit dancing around the inevitable.”

Nobunaga leans forward, and he ties up his hair. From an elevated angle, Nobunaga’s thin lips droop even worse than usual, and the bags under his eyes look like two bulging, black half-moons. His forehead shines bright, pearl blots of oil burning straight through Hisoka. 

“I know I shouldn’t have trusted you. Shouldn’t have ever taken you in.”

Nobunaga makes another loop with his hair tie, and he pulls his tresses through one more time. His hands retreat to his jacket, and he trades his slouchy posture for a rod-straight one.

  
  
In reply, Hisoka undoes the buttons on his shirt. When he shrugs it off, Nobunaga’s eyes go wide.

He looks Hisoka up and down and side to side. He grimaces at the tight stained tee Hisoka wears, and then he looks to the discarded button-down. 

“Trusting me was the worst decision you could’ve ever made.”

Before Nobunaga can formulate a response, Hisoka gestures to his tee, and a smile spreads across his face.

“This is a tradition. Personal one.”

  
  
“Personal⸺I⸺ _what have you done?_ ”

Hisoka unsheathes his dagger. He spins it around in one hand, and the metal sends shards of light bouncing off the walls. “I wear the same shirt for all my personal endeavors. Never wash it. Smells awful, but if you put on enough cologne⸺”

  
  
“Blood⸺personal endeavors⸺” Nobunaga looks up, and Hisoka’s smile spreads even wider. 

  
“That’s why they haven’t replied.” He flicks a dagger out from one sleeve. “Feitan and Shalnark. You fucking bastard.”

Hisoka’s reaching for his switchblade with a free hand, but before he can flip it open, a knife soars through the air and buries itself into a wall. It scrapes a few hairs off Hisoka’s head. 

“I’ll make this quick,”Hisoka falls to a crouch as the second knife races through the air. “But just to spare your walls.”

***

Hisoka hasn’t landed a single blow on Nobunaga. 

He’s seen the man fight a lot, and he knows of his fluid, agile fighting style. Hisoka’s also aware he prefers to go on the offense from a distance. All that means here is that he’s going to have to stall. 

Hisoka’s held up well enough, though he can’t dodge Nobunaga’s attacks forever. With every knife sent careening through the air, Hisoka becomes less and less sure about the outcome of the fight. No jacket should be able to hold that many daggers. 

Nobunaga tears yet another knife from his pocket. “Where’s your confidence, Hisoka? Your resolve?”

Hisoka barks out a laugh. “Foolish of you to assume it ever disappeared.”

Nobunaga growls and lunges at Hisoka, sending the dagger spinning towards his stomach. Hisoka is able to sidestep this shot easily, and in the process, he grabs Nobunaga by the neck and drives him against a wall. 

Instantly, Nobunaga procures a different knife and stabs Hisoka in the arm⸺but that doesn’t stop Hisoka from shoving his head into the drywall. His skull punches a jagged, cavernous hole, and dust rains onto Nobunaga. The rest drifts into the foyer. 

Hisoka tightens his grip, ignoring the piercing pain in his bicep. He knits his brows, and he begins drawing Nobunaga’s head in and out of the hole. The booms are low and consuming; vibrations penetrate through Hisoka’s chest, ricocheting along the ladder of his vertebrae. 

After a couple rounds, Hisoka tears Nobunaga’s head out, and he finds pinstripes of blood streaming down his face. With the harsh point of his chin, Nobunaga resembles a partially eaten peppermint. Hisoka’s attention wavers at the sight, and Nobunaga takes this opportunity to slip out his grip, putting distance between both of them. 

They’re back to their old dance, except now Hisoka’s got an annoyance biting into one arm, and the nagging of his wound is growing louder. Soon, it’s going to become a shriek, and Hisoka can’t have Nobunaga alive by then.

“Your eyes look a bit cloudy,” Hisoka dives to the right, and his wound weeps more blood.

Nobunaga shakes his head, aiming his next throw. “You’re getting slower. Don’t think… I haven’t noticed.”

Maybe so. But he’s doing a much better job hiding his pain than Nobunaga. Hisoka has been injured worse⸺hell, he’s almost been burned alive. He could take a hit to the arm, no matter if the weapon was dug to the hilt and he could feel tendons getting severed with every flinch.

“How many knives do you have left? If you don’t mind⸺” the hiss of metal cuts Hisoka off⸺”sharing your secrets.”

“I’ve got enough..That’s all you need to know.”

“Cryptic way to put it.”

“Snarky even when I’m busy trying to impale you,” Nobunaga wipes the blood from his forehead, and he procures a blade. “Somehow I’m not surprised.”

Hisoka shrugs⸺and he immediately regrets it, sucking in a breath through clamped teeth. “What can I say?”

Nobunaga smirks, and his ponytail whips up and above the crown of his head. There’s a new nonchalance to him, and Nobu doesn’t wear the mood well. 

“Does it hurt worse yet?”

Hisoka brushes off the taunt. He’ll be on the ground soon enough. Anyway, for now he’s going to need to figure out a way to close the distance. Nobunaga’s been more tactful with his throws as of late, and it’s getting harder to dodge them. Hisoka may end up skewered if he doesn’t think of something quick. 

The notion that he’s visualizing his death is worrisome enough⸺even moreso that he’s picturing it done by Nobunaga. He needs to get a grip, and while he believes in his capabilities, he can’t deny that his mind is bare and blank.

Hisoka clutches his dagger till his acrylics dig into his palm. He feels sweat slide beneath his nails. 

A part of him doesn’t want to map out what he’ll do next. When he’d landed his first hit on Nobunaga, he hadn’t thought of what he intended to do beforehand; no, he’d let his limbs work on their own, witnessing the actions unfold as an onlooker. 

But if he were to look past landing the hit, the blow itself doesn’t seem to impede Nobunaga greatly, and Hisoka’s impulsivity had also earned him his own injury⸺the injury which was now tuned up to a howl.

Nobunaga halts his track along the walls, and he crosses his arms over his chest. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and Hisoka realizes Nobunaga isn’t wearing shoes. Rather, he’s got on a pair of house slippers. 

What would’ve Nobu done if Hisoka hadn’t intruded? How would he have gone about his night? Hisoka has worked beside the man for a while, and though he can dissect his moral compass and the motives that govern his actions, Hisoka can’t guess at his hobbies, or his childhood aspirations, or even what his favorite color is. He’s acquainted with the center of his being, and Hisoka’s convinced himself that’s enough. 

But nuances have use, don’t they? It’s not that knowing about the quirks themselves that matter⸺what matters is the reason behind them. What’s lead him to favor shit to begin with. The most telling aspects of a person lay in the little things⸺and only bothering to acknowledge the big picture doesn’t always help.  
  


“Are you tired, Nobu?”

“I’m not the one who’s red in the face.”

  
  
“And I’m not the one with sweat running down my temples.”

  
  
“Shouldn’t you of all people be aware that there’s multiple ways to express things?”

  
  
Yes, there were multiple ways to express things, and there were also multiple ways to strike a fatal hit. Hisoka just had to think, to stall, to elongate this measure in whatever way possible.

“You ought to learn how to better navigate a conversation. You’ve shot yourself in the foot again.”

“Surprised this is what you’re prioritizing.”

  
  
And neither of them make a move. Instead, they regard each other from opposite sides of the room as if they could ever have gone back to being normal ways.

He’s glad he can multitask⸺because Hisoka’s having to swing over and crouch past the flurry of blades before he can make his move. 

Once Hisoka is within Nobu’s vicinity, he trips him, slams a heel into his groin, and then he leans over the man. He presses his foot deeper into Nobu as he does so, and Nobunaga groans. 

“No man can resist a hit to the balls, huh?”

Nobunaga raises his arms against the wood, and he flicks both wrists. 

Hisoka saw it coming⸺and he’d considered plunging down to stop him. That way, he wouldn’t have had to worry about getting stabbed again, and he’d also be able to inflict more blunt harm on the gang leader. 

But he’d dismissed the idea. He was sick of playing defense. And now, Nobunaga has lodged another barrier. 

Hisoka must’ve let a bit of frustration slip, because then Nobu snarls, “I’m under you, and you’re still tentative..to make a move.”

Hisoka tilts his head to the side. “I guess I am, aren’t I?”

He presses his boot into Nobunaga until he gasps, until he heaves, until he pants. 

And the grip round both knives remain. 

Hisoka lifts some pressure off Nobu, and he takes a gulp of air before Hisoka beat his foot into the man’s dick. He’s using his other leg to keep him stable, and in this stance, he’s back in his mind-numbing number, the one where he’s entranced by the advantage he’s seized. 

Hisoka upholds his tempo, and he looks around the living room, studying the furniture, studying the city that lay beyond the window’s sheer curtains.

  
  
He’s not going to deny that Machi’s betrayal bothers him, despite the fact that he’d expected it. She’d been the closest thing to a friend in a long time, and so there was a bit of sting that came with the confirmation of his suspicions. 

That would be dealt with promptly⸺once he’s slain Nobunaga and attended to the gash in his arm, everything else would come into focus. 

When Hisoka peers back down at Nobunaga, he bites his lip and leaps off the man, but he isn’t fast enough. 

There are multiple places where the problem can be traced back to. Later, Hisoka would pin it to his reflexive retreat. After lifting his weight off Nobunaga, he’d managed to snap up and into a tight squat, face drenched and eyes wild⸺in that stance, he’d driven one knife into Hisoka’s thigh before he could create space. 

The wound in Hisoka’s thigh joins the shriek in his arm. It’s taking everything just to stay on both feet, to keep his eyes on the gang leader in front of him, the gang leader who now wore a smirk on his face and was sprinting towards him at full speed, his last knife positioned over his shoulder like a soldier’s spear. 

Hisoka lifts his dagger in return, but this doesn’t slow Nobunaga. If anything, it only causes him to lower his head and come at Hisoka faster. 

Hisoka’s caught in a relentless blaze, and he can’t think, can’t do anything but let his body play the moves of this fight for him⸺and somehow, someway, Hisoka is able to swerve out the way, spin behind Nobunaga, and shove his own dagger into the former gang leader’s back. 

And it only takes a second for him to switch into that mode again. Now, he’s a mirage, and mirages are powerful, mesmerizing things. More importantly, however, he’s a god, and he’s a pharaoh, and he’s elated to have his enemy kneel before him against his will, greasy dark hair plastered to the tile, his arms folded beneath him and angled in all the wrong ways. 

Hisoka begins to laugh, but the laugh quickly grows into a cackle, and the room begins to sway and spin, and Hisoka’s not sure when he’s crumpled right beside Nobunaga, but he hardly cares. 

He’s won. He’s done it. This was the beginning, and it was the end, and Hisoka can’t recall ever being happier. And he’s not sure when he hears the door’s lock unslide either, but upon hearing Machi and Paku walk through he feels his core relax further.

That only lasts till a handful more steps follow, and one cool, raspy voice intones, “Take him away.”

  
  



End file.
